TOKNO 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


"Whatever  your  occupation  mar  be,  and  however  crowded 
your  hours  with  affairs,  do  not  fail  to  secure  at  least  a  few 
minutes  every  day  for  refreshment  of  your  inner  life  with 
a  bit  of  poetry." 


I 


Poems 
You  Ought  to  Know 


SELECTED  BY 

ELIAW.  PEAT  TIE 

(Literary  Editor  of  the  Chicago  Tribune) 
ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ELLSWORTH  YOUNG 


CHICAGO        NEW  YORK       TORONTO 

Fleming   H.   Revell   Company 

LONDON  AND  EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1902 
By  Tribune  Company 

Each  illustration  copyrighted  separately 


Copyright,  1903 
Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 


• 


INTRODUCTION 


Each  morning,  for  several  months,  The  Chicago  Tribune  has 
published  at  the  head  of  its  first  column,  verses  under  the  caption: 
"Poems  You  Ought  to  Know."  It  has  explained  its  action  by 
the  following  quotation  from  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton: 

"Whatever  your  occupation  may  be,  and  however  crowded  your 
hours  with  affairs,  do  not  fail  to  secure  at  least  a  few  minutes  every 
day  for  refreshment  of  your  inner  life  with  a  bit  of  poetry." 

By  publishing  these  poems  The  Tribune  hopes  to  accomplish 

two  things:  first,  to  inspire  a  love  of  poetry  in  the  hearts  of  many 

of  its  readers  who  have  never  before  taken  time  or  thought  to  read 

the  best  poems  of  this  and  other  centuries  and  lands;  and, secondly, 

Mo  remind  those  who  once  loved  song,  but  forgot  it  among  the 

J.  louder  voices  of  the  world,  of  the  melody  that  enchanted  them  in 

I  youth. 

The  title  has  carried  with  it  its  own  standard,  and  the  poems 

*  have  been  kept  on  a  plane  above  jocularity  or  mere  prettiness  of 

«*  versification ;  rather  have  they  tried  to  teach  the  doctrines  of 

» courage,  of  nature-love,  of  pure  and  noble  melody.     It  has  been 

£the  ambition  of  those  selecting  the  verses  to  choose  something  to 

o'lift  the  reader  above  the  "petty  round  of  irritating  concerns  and 

^duties,"  and  the  object  will  have  been  achieved  if  it  has  helped 

^anyone  to  "play  the  man,"    "to  go  blithely  about  his  business  all 

■jrthe  day,"  with  a  consciousness  of  that  abounding  beauty  in  the 

worldjof  thoughtVhich  is  the  common  property  of  all  men. 

No  anthology  of  English  verse  can  be  complete,  and  none  can 
satisfy  all.  The  compiler's  individual  taste,  tempered  and  guided 
by  established  authority,  is  almost  the  only  standard.  This  col- 
lection has  been  compiled  not  by  one  but  by  many  thousands,  and 
their  selections  here  appear  edited  and  winnowed  as  the  idea  of 
the  series  seemed  to  dictate.     The   book  appears  at  the  wide- 


r 


>0 


spread  and  almost  universal  request  of  those  who  have  watched 
the  bold  experiment  of  a  great  Twentieth-Century  American  news- 
paper giving  the  place  of  honor  in  its  columns  every  day  to  a 
selection  from  the  poets. 

For  permission  to  reprint  certain  poems  by  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
Harte,  Hay,  Bayard  Taylor,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Parsons,  and 
Aldrich,  graciously  accorded  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the 
publishers,  thanks  are  gratefully  acknowledged.  To  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  for  an  extract  from  Lanier's  poems,  and,  lastly, 
to  the  many  thousand  readers,  who,  by  their  sympathy,  appre- 
ciation, and  help  have  encouraged  the  continuance  of  the  daily 
publication  of  the  poems,  similar  gratitude  is  felt. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Addison,  Joseph — 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High        -        -        -        -     58 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey — 

An  Untimely  Thought  ------     73 

Nocturne      ---------  210 

Allen,  Elizabeth  Akers — 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep         -------    30 

Arnold,  Matthew — 

Requiescat   -        -        -      >  -        -        -        -        -        -90 

Self-Dependence  -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -156 

Song  of  Callicles  -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -214 

Barbauld,  Mrs.  A.  L. — 

Life      ----- 161 

Beatty,  Pakenham — 

To  Thine  Own  Self  Be  True  -        -        -        -        -    37 

Begbie,  Harold — 

Grounds  of  the  "Terrible"     ------  164 

Blake,  William — 

The  Lamb    -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -  153 

The  Tiger    ---------  176 

Boker,  George  H. — 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier         -------     53 

Bourdillon,  Francis  William — 

The  Night  Has  a  Thousand  Eyes 115 

Bronte,  Emily — 

Remembrance       --------     42 

Brown,  Brownlee — 

Thalassa       -        -  ...  i^Q 


ii  CONTENTS 


Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett — 

,        The  Cry  of  the  Children        -        -        -        -        -        -106 

Browning,  Robert — 

Misconceptions     -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -184 

The  Year's  at  the  Spring       -        -        -        -        -        -135 

Bryant,  William  Cullen — 

Thanatopsis  -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -112 

To  a  Waterfowl    --------  225 

Bunyan,  John — 

The  Shepherd  Boy's  Song     ------  100 

Burns,  Robert — 

Banks  o'  Doon      --------     76 

Highland  Mary    ---..»  -  152 

John  Anderson  My  Jo-        -        -        -        -        -        -  185 

Scots  Wha  Hae     --------  182 

Byron,  Lord — 

Destruction  of  the  Sennacherib      -        -        -        -        -    32 

Maid  of  Athens --  186 

She  Walks  in  Beauty      -  -----     57 

The  Isles  of  Greece -        -232 

Campion,  Thomas — 

Cherry-Ripe  --------36 

Carey,  Henry — 

Sally  in  Our  Alley         - 68 

Carlyle,  Thomas — 

To-Day 179 

Cary,  Phoebe — 

Nearer  Home        --------  174 

Chatterton,  Thomas — 

Faith 144 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey — 

An  Emperor's  Daughter  Stands  Alone  -        -        -        -    60 
Clarke,  Macdonald — 

In  the  Graveyard  -        -        -        -        -        -        -166 


« .. 


CONTENTS  in 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor — 

Kubla  Kahn  --------  jqq 

Cunningham,  Allan — 

A  Sea  Song  --------  ^4 

David — 

Psalm  XXIV 155 

Psalm  XLVIII 231 

Psalm  XLVI 44 

Psalm  XLX 74 

Psalm  LXXXIV in 

Psalm  CXXI        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -119 

Dickinson,  Emily — 

The  Grass    ---------  217 

Dobson,  Austin — 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel         -        -        -        -        -        -        -188 

The  Paradox  of  Time   -------  208 

The  Pompadour's  Fan  ------    75 

In  Quaque    ---------  188 

Durivage,  Francis  A. — 

All -       -        -        -  160 

Eliot,  George — 

Two  Lovers  --------    48 

Finch,  Francis  Miles — 

Nathan  Hale         --------  212 

Foss,  Sam  Walter — 

He'd  Had  No  Show 93 

Garnett,  Richard — 

The  Ballad  of  the  Boat 172 

Gillington,  Mary  C. — 

Intra  Muros  --------     2i 

Goethe,  Jouann  Wolfgang — 

Mignon's  Song no 


IV  CONTENTS 


Harte,  Francis  Bret — 

Flynn  of  Virginia  -------  204 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus 210 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen — 

The  Song  of  the  Western  Men 129 

Hay,  John — 

Jim  Bludso --64 

Little  Breeches     --------202 

Henley,  W.  E. — 

Invictus --  131 

Herbert,  George — 

Virtue  -        - -    34 

Herrick,  Robert — 

Counsel  to  Virgins 138 

Delight  in  Disorder       -------    62 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert — 

Babyhood --40 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell — 

The  Chambered  Nautilus      ------    87 

The  Last  Leaf      --------    84 

Hood,  Thomas — 

Her  Moral  from  Miss  Kilmanseg  -----    95 

Past  and  Present  -        -        -        -        -        -        -123 

Song  of  the  Shirt  -------85 

The  Death-Bed    --------    33 

Hunt,  Leigh — 

AbouBenAdhem J°7 

Ingalls,  John  James — 

Opportunity         --------  109 

Jackson,  Henry  R. — 

My  Wife  and  Child 220 

Jonson,  Ben — 

To  Celia 187 

Keats,  John — 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  ------    97 


CONTENTS 


Key,  Francis  Scott — 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner    -        -        -        -        -        -  120 

Kingsley,  Charles — 

The  Three  Fishers        -------  230 

Knox,  William — 

O  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal        -        -        -        -228 

Lamb,  Charles — 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces        -        -        -        -        -        -     18 

Lanier,  Sidney — 

Evening  Song        --------54 

Lever,  Charles — 

The  Widow  Malone      -------  218 

Logan,  John — 

To  the  Cuckoo      --------    94 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth — 

Arsenal  at  Springfield  -        -        -        -        -        -158 

Serenade  ("The  Spanish  Student")         -        -        -        -     96 

The  Bridge  ------  -     76 

The  Day  Is  Done  -  -  -  200 

Lovelace,  Richard — 

To  Althea  from  Prison  -  -     98 

To  Lucasta  on  Going  to  the  Wars  -        -        -    35 

Lowe,  John — 

Mary's  Dream      -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -124 

Lowell,  James  Russell — 

Jonathan  to  John  -        -        -        -        -        -        -  222 

June     -  -  194 

The  Heritage        --------  116 

To  the  Dandelion  -        -        -        -        -        -        -  170 

Lytle,  William  H. — 

Antony  and  Cleopatra  ------  226 

Mackay,  Charles — 

A  Deed  and  a  Word      -------     47 

Mahony,  Francis — 

The  Bells  of  Shandon    -  -  -196 


vi  CONTENTS 

McCreery,  J.  L. — 

There  Is  No  Death 25 

McPhelim,  E.  J. — 

Elia     ----------70 

Meynell,  Alice — 

The  Shepherdess  -        -        -        -        -        -        -130 

Milton,  John — 

Song  on  a  May  Morning 163 

Moore,  Thomas — 

Believe  Me  if  All  Those  Endearing  Young  Charms        -  101 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 63 

The  Harp  that  Once  -195 

Though  Lost  to  Sight  ______    2o 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer       -        -        -        -        -  132 

Mulock,  Dinah  Maria — 

Douglas,  Douglas,  Tender  and  True      -  149 

Neale,  John  M. — 

Jerusalem  the  Golden  -        -        -        -        -        -183 

Newman,  John  Henry — 

Lead  Kindly  Light        -       - 72 

O'Connor,  Joseph — 

The  Fount  of  Castaly    - 142 

Parsons,  Thomas  W. — 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante      -------  126 

Poe,  Edgar  A. — 

Annabel  Lee         --------  178 

Pope,  Alexander — 

Ode  on  Solitude    --------  103 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan — 

Drifting        -        -        -        -        -.-        -        -        -50 
Realf,  Richard — 

A  Holy  Nation      --------23 


CONTENTS  vn 


Ronsard,  Pierre — 

The  Rose 143 

Rossetti,  Christina — 

Uphill  - 148 

Ryan,  Abram — 

Song  of  the  Mystic         -- 81 

Scott,  Sir  Walter — 

Bonny  Dundee      -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -167 

Border  Ballad       - 169 

Breathes  there  the  Man         ------  104 

Where  Shall  the  Lover  Rest  -        -        -        -        -216 

Shakespeare,  William — 

One  Touch  of  Nature             ------  89 

Portia's  Speech  on  Mercy      ------  207 

Ruthless  Time      --------46 

Song  from  "Cymbeline"        -        -   .     -        -        -        -  71 

Time  Hath,  My  Lord             ------  46 

To  Be  or  Not  to  Be-        -        -        -        -        -        -  224 

Macbeth's  Soliloquy      -------  200 

When  in  Disgrace  with  Fortune     -----  19 

Shelley,  percy  Bysshe — 

Music  when  Soft  Voices  Die          ----,-  133 

An  Indian  Serenade -  141 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip — 

A  Ditty         -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -  118 

Sill,  Edward  Rowland — 

The  Fool's  Prayer         -------  28 

Spalding,  Susan  Marr — 

Fate     ----------  22 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis — 

A  Requiem ---90 

Suckling,  Sir  John — 

Ballad  upon  a  Wedding -  192 

Why  So  Pale  and  Wan           -        -        -        -        -        -  139 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles — 

A  Match 137 


Vlll  CONTENTS 


Taylor,  Bayard — 

Bedouin  Song       --------67 

The  Song  of  the  Camp  ______  146 

Tennyson,  Lord — 

Break,  Break,  Break     -------    24 

Bugle  Song  ________  io8 

Crossing  the  Bar  -        -        -        -        -        -        -193 

Moral  from  "The  Day  Dream"     -        -  -    66 

From  "In  Memoriam"  -------  121 

Tears,  Idle  Tears  '"      -        -        -        -        -        -        -151 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace — 

At  the  Church  Gate       -------92 

The  Garret  --------  198 

Tompkins,  Juliet  Wilbor — 

Fpr  All  These       -  -    45 

Villon,  Francois — 

Ballad — Dead  Ladies  -        -        -        -        -        -128 

Waller,  Edmund — 

Go,  Lovely  Rose  --------82 

On  a  Girdle  --------  199 

White,  Joseph  Blanco — 

Night  ----------    79 

Whitman,  Walt — 

O  Captain,  My  Captain         ------    38 

Warble  for  Lilac  Time  ------  206 

Whittier,  John  G. — 

Indian  Summer    --------  181 

The  Waiting         --------  136 

Willard,  Emma — 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep  -        -        -        -  105 

Wither,  George — 

The  Shepherd's  Resolution 80 


CONTENTS  IX 


Woodwort'h,  Samuel — 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket         ------    86 

Wordsworth,  William — 

The  Daffodils       --------  162 

The  World  Is  Too  Much  with  Us  -  102 

To  Sleep       -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -17 


TO   SLEEP. 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

William  Wordsworth  was  born  in  1770  and  died  at  Rydal  Mount  in 
1850.  He  was  educated  in  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  in  1791.  He 
traveled  on  the  continent  before  that,  but  he  settled  down  for  several 
years  in  Dorset.  A  visit  from  Coleridge  determined  his  career  in  1796. 
He  was  again  abroad  in  1798,  but  returned  the  following  year  and  went 
to  live  at  Grasmere  in  the  lake  district.  He  held  several  government 
positions  and  was  poet  laureate  from  1S43  to  his  death.  His  chief  works 
are,  "The  Evening  Walk,"  "Descriptive  Sketches,"  "The  Excursion," 
"White  Doe  of  Rylston,"  "Thanksgiving  Ode,"  "Peter  Bell,"  "Wag- 
goner," "River  Duddon,"  A  Series  of  Sonnets,  "The  Borderers,"  "Yar- 
row Revisited,"   and  "The  Prelude." 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 

One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 

Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 

I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 

And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 


Even  thus  last  night  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep,  by  any  stealth ; 

So  do  not  let  me  wear  tonight  away ; 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 

Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 

Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health! 

l7 


THE   OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

BY  CHABLES  LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  at  London  in  1775.  His  most  successful  writ- 
ings are  the  "Tales  from  Shakespeare"  (written  in  collaboration  with 
his   sister),    and   his  "Essays   of   Elia."      Lamb  died  in  1834. 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school  days — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  pace  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


18 


WHEN    IN    DISGRACE. 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAK.SPEARE. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee  and  then  my  state, 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising, 

From  sullen  earth),  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 


19 


"THOUGH   LOST 


TO    SIGHT, 
DEAR." 


TO    MEMORY 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


Sweetheart,  good-by!    The  fluttering  sail 

Is  spread  to  waft  me  far  from  thee ; 
And  soon  before  the  favoring  gale 

My  ship  shall  bound  across  the  sea. 
Perchance,  all  desolate  and  forlorn, 

These  eyes  shall  miss  thee  many  a  year; 
But  un  forgotten  every  charm — 

Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear. 

Sweetheart,  good-by!    One  last  embrace! 

Oh,  cruel  fate,  two  souls  to  sever! 
Yet  in  this  heart's  most  sacred  place 

Thou,  thou  alone,  shall  dwell  forever. 
And  still  shall  recollection  trace 

In  fancy's  mirror,  ever  near, 
Each  smile,  each  tear,  upon  that  face — 

Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear. 


20 


INTRA   MUROS. 

BY  MARY  C.  GILLINGTON. 

At  last  'tis  gone,  the  fever  of  the  day — 

Thank  God,  there  comes  an  end  to  everything; 

Under  the  night  cloud's  deepened  shadowing, 
The  noises  of  the  city  drift  away 
Thro'  sultry  streets  and  alleys,  and  the  gray 

Fogs  'round  the  great  cathedral  rise  and  cling. 

I  long  and  long,  but  no  desire  will  bring 
Against  my  face  the  keen  wind  salt  with  spray. 

O,  far  away,  green  waves,  your  voices  call ; 

Your  cool  lips  kiss  the  wild  and  weedy  shore ; 
And  out  upon  the  sea  line  sails  are  brown — 
White  sea  birds,  crying,  hover — soft  shades  fall — 
Deep  waters  dimple  'round  the  dripping  oar, 
And  last  rays  light  the  little  fishing  town. 


21 


FATE. 

BY  SUSAN  MARK  SPALDING. 

Susan  Marr  Spalding  was  born  in  Bath,  Me.,  and  educated  In  a 
eeminary  there.  From  early  girlhood  she  wrote  verse,  her  sonnets 
being  graceful  and  tender.  At  the  death  of  her  parents  she  lived  with 
her  uncle,  a  clergyman,  in  New  York.  She  married  Mr.  Spalding,  a 
literary  man,  and  made  her  home  in  Philadelphia. 

Two  shall  be  born,  the  whole  wide  world  apart, 
And  speak  in  different  tongues,  and  have  no  thought 
Each  of  the  other's  being ;  and  have  no  heed ; 
And  these,  o'er  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands 
Shall  cross,  escaping  wreck ;    defying  death ; 
And,  all  unconsciously,  shape  every  act  to  this  one  end 
That,  one  day,  out  of  darkness,  they  shall  meet 
And  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's  eyes. 

And  two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life 
So  nearly  side  by  side  that,  should  one  turn 
Ever  so  little  space  to  right  or  left, 
They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged  face  to  face. 
And  yet,  with  wistful  eyes  that  never  meet. 
With  groping  hands  that  never  clasp ;  and  lips 
Calling  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear ; 
They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days 
And  die  unsatisfied — and  that  is  fate. 


22 


A  HOLY  NATION. 

BY  RICHAKD  RE  ALP. 

Richard  Realf  was  born  In  England  In  1834  of  poor  parents  and  began 
writing  poetry  at  an  early  age.  His  early  work  attracted  the  attention 
of  Tennyson,  Miss  Mltford,  Miss  Jameson,  Miss  Martineau,  and  others, 
and  they  secured  the  publication  of  his  volume,  "Guesses  at  the  Beauti- 
ful." He  dabbled  some  in  sculpture,  and  even  studied  agricultural 
science.  In  1S54  he  came  to  New  York,  where  he  wrote  stories  of  slum 
life  and  assisted  in  establishing  some  institutions  for  the  relief  of  the 
poor.  He  Joined  the  first  free  soil  parties  moving  to  Kansas  and  was 
arrested.  He  did  newspaper  work  until  he  joined  John  Brown's  party. 
He  was  Brown's  secretary  of  state.  He  was  arrested  in  connection  with 
the  Harper's  Ferry  affair,  enlisted  in  1SG2,  was  wounded,  taught  a  black 
■chool  in  South  Carolina  in  1S67,  and  for  years  led  a  hand  to  mouth  exist- 
ence, all  that  time  writing  poetry,  some  of  it  of  the  most  exquisite  beauty. 
Family  troubles  resulted  in  his  suicide  in  San  Francisco  about  1875. 

Let  Liberty  run  onward  with  the  years, 
And  circle  with  the  seasons ;  let  her  break 
The  tyrant's  harshness,  the  oppressor's  spears; 
Bring  ripened  recompenses  that  shall  make 
Supreme  amends  for  sorrow's  long  arrears ; 
Drop  holy  benison  on  hearts  that  ache; 
Put  clearer  radiance  into  human  eyes, 
And  set  the  glad  earth  singing  to  the  skies. 

Clean  natures  coin  pure  statutes.  Let  us  cleanse 
The  hearts  that  beat  within  us ;  let  us  mow 
Clear  to  the  roots  our  falseness  and  pretense, 
Tread  down  our  rank  ambitions,  overthrow 
Our  braggart  moods  of  puffed  self-consequence, 
Plow  up  our  hideous  thistles  which  do  grow 
Faster  than  maize  in  May  time,  and  strike  dead 
The  base  infections  our  low  greeds  have  bred. 


23 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

BY  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  at  Lincolnshire  in  1809.  In  1828  he  wrote, 
•with  his  brother,  the  "Poems  by  Two  Brothers."  He  went  to  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  where  he  met  his  friend,  Arthur  Hallam,  upon 
whose  death  he  wrote  "In  Memoriam."  "When  Wordsworth  died  In 
1850,  the  laureateship  was  given  to  Tennyson;  later  he  was  made  a 
Baron.  He  died  at  Aldworth,  on  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in  1892,  and  has 
been  given  a  place  in  Westminster  Abbey  near  the  grave  of  Chaucer. 
Other  of  his  longer  poems  beside  the  one  mentioned  above  are:  "The 
Princess,"  "Maud,"  "Enoch  Arden,"  and  the  "Idyls  of  the  King." 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O,  sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O,  well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on, 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O,  sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


24 


THERE   IS   NO   DEATH. 

BY  J.  L.  McCREERY. 

This  beautifully  touching  poem  is  the  creation  of  Mr.  J.  L.  McCreery, 
a  native  of  Iowa,  and  at  one  time  editor  of  the  Delaware  County  Journal, 
of  that  state.  The  poem  was  written  in  1SG3  and  was  first  published  in 
Arthur's  Home  Magazine  in  July  of  that  year.  The  authorship  of  the 
poem  was  for  many  years  erroneously  attributed  to  Lord  Lytton,  the 
English  poet.  A  thorough  investigation  carried  on  by  Lippincott's  a 
few  years  ago  fully  established  the  authorship.  The  poem  has  been 
printed  in  every  state  of  the  Union,  in  England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  Wales, 
Canada,  and  even  in  Australia.  It  has  gone  into  dozens  of  school  books 
«ind  been  incorporated  in  scores  of  miscellaneous  collections  of  poetry. 
It  has  been  quoted  in  full  or  in  part  at  least  five  times  on  the  floor  of 
Congress.  Mr.  McCreery  has  for  the  past  few  years  been  a  resident  of 
the  national  capital  and  his  best  poems  have  been  collected  into  a  volume 
entitled  "Songs  of  Toil  and  Triumph." 

There  is  no  death,  the  stars  go  down 

To  rise  upon  some  other  shore, 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown 

They  shine  forever  more. 

There  is  no  death !  the  forest  leaves 

Convert  to  life  the  viewless  air; 
The  rocks  disorganize  to  feed 

The  hungry  moss  they  bear. 

There  is  no  death !  the  dust  we  tread 

Shall  change,  beneath  the  summer  showers, 

To  golden  grain,  or  mellow  fruit, 
Or  rainbow-tinted  flowers. 

There  is  no  death !  the  leaves  may  fall, 
The  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away  — 

They  only  wait,  through  wintry  hours, 
The  warm,  sweet  breath  of  May. 


25 


There  is  no  death!  the  choicest  gifts 
That  heaven  hath  kindly  lent  to  earth 

Are  ever  first  to  seek  again 
The  country  of  their  birth. 

And  all  things  that  for  growth  of  joy 
Are  worthy  of  our  love  or  care, 

Whose  loss  has  left  us  desolate, 
Are  safely  garnered  there. 

Though  life  become  a  dreary  waste, 
We  know  its  fairest,  sweetest  flowers, 

Transplanted  into  paradise, 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  voice  of  bird-like  melody 

That  we  have  missed  and  mourned  so  long 
Now  mingles  with  the  angel  choir 

In  everlasting  song. 

There  is  no  death  1  although  we  grieve 
When  beautiful,  familiar  forms 

That  we  have  learned  to  love  are  torn 
From  our  embracing  arms. 

Although  with  bowed  and  breaking  heart, 
With  sable  garb  and  silent  tread, 

We  bear  their  senseless  dust  to  rest, 
And  say  that  they  are  "dead." 

They  are  not  dead !  they  have  but  passed 
Beyond  the  mists  that  blind  us  here 

Into  the  new  and  larger  life 
Of  that  serener  sphere. 

They  have  but  dropped  their  robe  of  clay 
To  put  their  shining  raiment  on ; 

They  have  not  wandered  far  away — 
They  are  not  "lost"  or  "gone." 

26 


Though  disenthralled  and  glorified, 
They  still  are  here  and  love  us  yet; 

The  dear  ones  they  have  left  behind 
They  never  can  forget. 


And  sometimes,  when  our  hearts  grow  faint 
Amid  temptations  fierce  and  deep, 

Or  when  the  wildly  raging  waves 
Of  grief  or  passion  sweep, 

We  feel  upon  our  fevered  brow 

Their  gentle  touch,  their  breath  of  balm ; 
Their  arms  enfold  us,  and  our  hearts 

Grow  comforted  and  calm. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 
The  dear,  immortal  spirits  tread ; 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life — there  are  no  dead. 


THE  FOOL'S   PRAYER. 

v  BY  E.  R.  SILL. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill  was  born  at  Windsor,  Conn.,  April  29,  1841; 
died  in  Cleveland,  O.,  Feb.  27,  1887.  He  was  graduated  from  Yale  in 
1S61;  studied  biology  at  Harvard,  did  literary  work  in  New  York  City, 
taught  school  in  California  and  Ohio,  and  was  for  eight  years  professor 
of  English  language  and  literature  in  the  University  of  California.  His 
poems  were  privately  printed  under  the  title  "The  Hermitage  and 
Other  Poems." 

The  royal  feast  was  done;  the  king 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried:   "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer!" 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 
His  pleading  voice  arose :  "O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool; 
The  rod  must  heal  the  sin ;  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

28 


"  "Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 
'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard,  well  meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 

Who  knows  how  shaq?  it  pierced  and  stung ! 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung ! 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 
But  for  our  blunders — O,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

Men  crown  the  knave  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  thou,  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 

The  king,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 
And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 


*  >    t    -r"n 


*9 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

BY  ELIZABETH  AKEKS  ALLEN. 

This  is  one  of  the  songs  which,  as  Longfellow  said,  gush  from  the 
heart  of  "some  humbler  poet."  In  this  country,  at  least,  it  has  been 
extremely  popular,  having  been  set  to  music  and  sung  in  innumerable 
households.  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  was  born  in  1832,  and  still  lives  at 
Tuckahoe,  N.  Y.  She  wrote  poetry  from  the  age  of  15,  and  has  pub- 
lished many  volumes.  The  poem  here  published  first  appeared  in  1859. 
A  new  volume  of  her  verse  is  just  announced  in  Boston. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  tonight ; 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep ; 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years, 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears — 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain — 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again ! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay — 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away ; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ; 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed,  and  faded  our  faces  between! 

30 


Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain 
Long  I  tonight  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  are  flown 
No  love  like  mother  love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours ; 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  world  weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  the  heavy  lids  creep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  tonight, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny  edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore; 
Lovingly,  softly  its  bright  billows  sweep ; 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  hushed  to  your  lullaby  song; 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 


31 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

BY  LOKD  BYBON. 

Lord  Byron  was  born  in  London  in  1788.  His  first  volume  of  verses, 
entitled  "Hours  of  Idleness,"  was  printed  in  1807.  "Manfred"  and  "The 
Lament  of  Tasso"  were  written  in  1817.  From  1818  to  his  death  Byron 
was  occupied  on  "Don  Juan."  In  1823  he  went  to  Greece,  and  with 
advice  and  money  aided  in  the  Greek  struggle  for  independence.  He 
died  in  Greece  in  1824. 

"And  it  came  to  pass,  that  night,  that  the  angel  of  the  Lord  went 
out  and  smote  in  the  camp  of  the  Assyrians  an  hundred  four  score  and 
five  thousand;  and  when  they  arose  early  in  the  morning,  behold,  they 
were  all  dead  corpses."— II.  Kings,  xix.,  35. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved — and  forever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock  beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale, 
.With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

32 


And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  1 


THE   DEATH   BED. 

BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 

Thomas  Hood  was  born  in  London  In  1799,  and  early  In  life  turned  his 
attention  to  literary  pursuits.  At  the  age  of  22  he  became  sub-editor  of 
the  London  Magazine,  which  gave  him  acquaintance  with  all  the  literary 
men  of  the  age,  and  an  Intimacy  with  Charles  Lamb,  which  continued 
until  his  death.  He  was  a  voluminous  writer,  both  In  poetry  and  prose, 
contributing  to  various  magazines.  In  1844  Hood's  Magazine  was 
started,  for  which  he  furnished  most  of  the  material  until  near  his 
death.  His  best  work  was  done  during  his  last  sickness,  when,  on  a 
bed  of  suffering,  he  contributed  to  Punch  those  touching  verses  which 
have  rendered  his  name  Immortal:  "The  Song  of  the  Shirt"  and  '"x**e 
Bridge  of  Sighs."      He  died  May  3,  1S45. 

We  watched  her  sleeping  through  the  night, 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  surging  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  being  out. 
Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied, 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed,  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


H 


VIRTUE  IMMORTAL. 

BY  GEOEGE  HEBBEET. 

George  Herbert  was  born  at  Montgomery  castle  in  Wales  in  1593.  He 
graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  in  1619  he  was  made  a 
public  orator.  Charles  I.,  with  whom  he  was  in  great  favor,  gave  him 
the  rectory  of  Bemerton,  which  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  smallest 
church  in  England.  It  was  here  that  Herbert  wrote  his  religious 
poems,  "The  Temple:  Sacred  Poems  and  Private  Ejaculations."  He 
died  at  Bemerton  in  1633. 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright; 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  tonight, 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 

Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber  never  gives, 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 


34 


TO   LUCASTA,    ON   GOING   TO   THE    WARS 

BY  RICHARD  LOVELACE. 

Richard  Lovelace  was  an  English  cavalier,  born  In  1618,  a  period 
•which  produced  many  poets.  He  was  educated  both  at  the  Charter- 
house and  at  Oxford.  He  was  twice  imprisoned  on  account  of  the 
active  part  he  took  in  the  affairs  of  the  times.  After  the  execution  of 
Charles,  he  was  set  free  from  prison  only  to  find  that  his  estates  had 
been  confiscated.  He  died  in  great  poverty  in  London,  in  1658.  After 
his  death  his  poems  were  collected  under  the  name  of  "Lucasta,  Pos- 
thume  Poems."  The  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  the  poems  were  written 
was  Lucy  Sacheverell,  whom  he  called  his   "Lux  Castra." 


Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  hreast  and  quiet 
mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  em- 
brace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so 
much, 
Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 


35 


CHERRY  RIPE. 

BY  THOMAS  CAMPION. 
There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow, 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 

Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow ; 
There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which,  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow; 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

36 


fe 


TO   THINE   OWN   SELF   BE   TRUE. 

BY  PAKENHAM  BEATTY. 

Pakenham  Beatty  was  born  In  1855.  He  haa  written  aeveral  volumes 
—•'To  My  LAdy,"  1878;  "Three  Women  of  the  People,"  1881;  and  "Mar- 
cla,  a  Tragedy,"  1884. 

By  thine  cwn  soul's  law  learn  to  live, 
And  if  men  thwart  thee  take  no  heed, 

And  if  men  hate  thee  have  no  care; 
Sing  thou  thy  song  and  do  thy  deed. 

Hope  thou  thy  hope  and  pray  thy  prayer, 
And  claim  no  crown  they  will  not  give, 

Nor  bays  they  grudge  thee  for  thy  hair. 

Keep  thou  thy  soul-worn  steadfast  oath, 

And  to  thy  heart  be  true  thy  heart ; 
What  thy  soul  teaches  learn  to  know, 

And  play  out  thine  appointed  part, 
And  thou  shalt  reap  as  thou  shalt  sow, 

Nor  helped  nor  hindered  in  thy  growth, 
To  thy  full  stature  thou  shalt  grow. 

Fix  on  the  future's  goal  thy  face, 

And  let  thy  feet  be  lured  to  stray 
Nowhither,  but  be  swift  to  run, 

And  nowhere  tarry  by  the  way, 
Until  at  last  the  end  is  won 

And  thou  mayst   look  back  from  thy  place 
And  sec  thy  long  day's  Journey  done. 


37 


■ 


O,   CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN. 

Walt  Whitman  was  born  on  Long  Island,  N.  Y.,  in  1819.  His  father 
was  a  carpenter.  After  the  family  removed  to  Brooklyn  Walt  became 
apprenticed  to  a  newspaper,  and  at  12  began  to  write  bits  of  verse,  some 
of  which  were  published  in  the  New  York  Mirror.  He  made  a  series  of 
long  tramping  tours  through  the  country,  returning  finally  to  newspaper 
work  in  Brooklyn.  He  became  known  to  the  public  as  a  poet  through 
his  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  published  in  1885.  The  volume  was  declared 
immoral  by  some,  and  the  author  severely  criticised.  "Leaves  of 
Grass"  has  been  republished  a  number  of  times  in  the  United  States, 
England,  and  Scotland,  and  among  Whitman's  other  works  are  "Drum 
Taps,"  "As  Strong  as  a  Bird  on  Pinions  Free,"  "Two  Rivulets,"  "Speci- 
men Days  and  Collect,"  "November  Boughs,"  and  "Sands  at  Seventy." 
He  died  in  1892. 

O,  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 

But,  O,  heart!  heart!  heart! 

O,  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O,  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 

Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 

Here,  Captain!  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 

You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
His  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won ; 


38 


Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 

But  I  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


39 


BABYHOOD. 

BY  JOSIAH  GILBEET  HOLLAND. 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  was  born  in  Belchertown,  Mass.,  July  24, 
1819;  died  in  New  York  City  Oct.  12,  1881.  He  was  the  son  of  a  mechanic 
and  inventor.  He  attended  a  district  school,  taught  district  schools, 
studied  medicine,  and  in  1844  was  graduated  from  the  Berkshire  medical 
college,  which  exists  no  longer,  at  Pittsfield.  He  practiced  medicine 
for  three  years,  ran  a  weekly  paper  six  months,  became  superintendent 
of  schools  in  Vicksburg,  Miss.,  formed  a  literary,  reportorial,  and 
editorial  connection  with  the  Springfield  Republican  in  1850,  which  lasted 
until  1866,  he  having  in  the  meantime  acquired  a  financial  interest  in 
the  paper.  Some  of  his  best  works  appeared  first  in  the  Republican. 
In  1870,  with  Roswell  Smith,  he  founded  Scribner's  Magazine.  He  wrote 
histories,  stories,  essays,  letters,  lectures,  and  poems. 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt! 
Unwritten  history ! 
Unfathomed  mystery! 
Yet  chuckles  and  crows  and  nods  and  winks, 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx! 
Warped  by  colic  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins  and  tortured  by  fears 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years; 
And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so. 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day? 
40 


Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony — 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tidel 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair? 
Wrhat  of  the  cradle  roof  that  flies 

Forward  and  backward  through  the  air? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast, 

Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 

Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight — 

Cup  of  his  life  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart  throbs  sink  and  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell, 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds — 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well? 

Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep ! 

I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 

Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse, 

Over  his  brow  and  over  his  lips, 

Out  to  his  little  finger  tips! 

Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes ! 

Down  he  goes !   down  he  goes ! 

See!  he  is  hushed  in  sweet  repose! 


iIBWNMS  CCMXASnf. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

BY  EMILY  BRONTE. 

This  poem,  as  well  as  all  of  Emily  Bronte's  verses,  Is  tinged  with  the 
deepest  melancholy— the  sorrow  which  both  Charlotte  and  Emily  Bronte 
experienced,  and  which  has  set  them  apart  in  the  world  of  letters  from 
those  who  do  not  feel  so  deeply  the  emotions  of  which  they  write. 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee, 
Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary  grave! 

Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 
Sever'd  at  last  by  Time's  all  severing  wave? 

Now,  when  alone,  do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
Over  the  mountains,  on  that  northern  shore, 

Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and  fern  leaves  cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more? 

42 


Sweet  love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee, 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along; 

Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 

Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong! 

No  later  light  has  lighten'd  up  my  heaven, 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shown  for  me ; 

All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life  was  given, 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  had  perish'd, 
And  even  despair  was  powerless  to  destroy; 

Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherish'd 
Strengthen'd,  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Wean'd  my  young  soul  from  yearning  after  thine ; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  languish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish, 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again? 


43 


PSALM  XLVI. 

God  is  our  refuge  and  strength, 

A  very  present  help  in  trouble, 

Therefore  will  not  we  fear,  though  the  earth  be  removed, 

And  though  the  mountains  be  carried  into  the  midst  of  the  sea ; 

Though  the  waters  thereof  roar  and  be  troubled, 

Though  the  mountains  shake  with  the  swelling  thereof, 

There  is  a  river,  the  streams  whereof  shall  make  glad  the  city 

of  God, 
The  holy  place  of  the  tabernacles  of  the  most  High. 
God  is  in  the  midst  of  her ;  she  shall  not  be  moved ; 
God  shall  help  her,  and  that  right  early. 
The  heathen  raged,  the  kingdoms  were  moved ; 
He  uttered  his  voice,  the  earth  melted. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us ; 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  refuge. 
Come,  behold  the  works  of  the  Lord, 
What  desolations  he  hath  made  in  the  earth, 
He  maketh  wars  to  cease  unto  the  end  of  the  earth; 
He  breaketh  the  bow,  and  cutteth  the  spear  in  sunder ; 
He  burneth  the  chariot  in  the  fire. 
Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God ; 
I  will  be  exalted  among  the  heathen, 
I  will  be  exalted  in  the  earth. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us ; 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  refuge. 


44 


FOR   ALL   THESE. 

BY  JULIET  WILBOR  TOMPKINS. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  I  am  straight  and  strong, 
With  wit  to  work  and  hope  to  keep  me  brave ; 

That  two  score  years,  unfathomed,  still  belong 
To  the  allotted  life  thy  bounty  gave. 

I  thank  thee  that  the  sight  of  sunlit  lands 

And  dipping  hills,  the  breath  of  evening  grass — 

That  wet,  dark  rocks  and  flowers  in  my  hand9 
Can  give  me  daily  gladness  as  I  pass. 

I  thank  thee  that  I  love  the  things  of  earth — 
Ripe  fruits  and  laughter  lying  down  to  sleep, 

The  shine  of  lighted  towns,  the  graver  worth 
Of  beating  human  hearts  that  laugh  and  weep. 

I  thank  thee  that  as  yet  I  need  not  know, 

Yet  need  not  fear,  the  mystery  of  the  en'd ; 
But  more  than  all,  and  though  all  these  should  go — 

Dear  Lord,  this  on  my  knees! — I  thank  thee  for  my  friend. 


45 


RUTHLESS  TIME. 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

(From  "Troilus  and  Cresslda.") 

Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back, 

Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 

A  great  sized  monster  of  ingratitudes ; 

Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ;  which  are  devour'^ 

As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 

As  done :  perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 

Keeps  honor  bright;  to  have  done  is  to  hang 

Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 

In  monumental  mockery.    Take  th'  instant  way; 

For  honor  travels  in  a  straight  so  narrow, 

Where  one  but  goes  abreast;  keep,  then,  the  path; 

For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 

That  one  by  one  pursue :  if  you  give  way, 

Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright, 

Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  all  rush  by 

And  leave  you  hindmost; 

Or  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first  rank, 

Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 

O'errun  and  trampled  on. 


46 


q*3 /_     r^rj 

MKH  t^JVW-  I^7T3J  -iUolor 

"3^/  n/SiL-jaoCoflwBc- 

A  DEED   AND  A   WORD. 

BY  CHARLES  MACKAY. 

Charles  Mackay  was  born  at  Perth  in  1814.  He  was,  from  1844  to  1847. 
th«  editor  of  the  Glasgow  Argus,  and  later  of  the  Illustrated  London 
News.  During  the  civil  war  he  was  the  New  York  correspondent  for  the 
London  Times.  He  died  at  London  In  1889.  Several  of  his  writings  are 
"The  Salamandrine,  or  Love  and  Immortality,"  "Voices  from  the 
Crowd,"   "Voices  from  the  Mountains,"  and   "History  of  the  Mormons." 

A  little  stream  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern  ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well, 

Where  wear)'  men  might  turn  ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink  ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  all  might  'drink. 

47 


He  passed  again,  and  lo !  the  wel^ 

By  summer  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 

Unstudied,  from  the  heart ; 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath — 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
O  germ!     O  fount!    O  word  of  love! 

O  thought  at  random  cast! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last. 


TWO   LOVERS. 

BY  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 

Mary  Ann  Evans  wa?  born  at  Warwickshire,  in  1819.  She  received 
her  education  at  Nuneaton,  and  also  at  Coventry.  In  1851  she  was 
given  the  position  oi  assistant  editor  on  the  "Westminster  Review," 
which  she  held  until  1853.  In  the  following  year  she  entered  into  a 
domestic  and  philosophical  partnership  with  George  Henry  Lewes.  Two 
years  after  his  death  she  married  John  Walter  Cross,  a  man  much 
younger  than  herself.  After  her  death  her  husband  published  her 
memoirs.  She  died  at  Chelsea,  London,  in  1880.  Though  shunned  by 
the  women  of  her  acquaintance,  Eliot  was  courted  by  the  greatest 
philosophers  of  her  time. 

Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring: 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 

O  budding  time ! 

O,  love's  blest  prime! 

48 


Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept: 
The  bells  made  happy  carolings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

O  pure-eyed  bride ! 

O  tender  pride! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent : 
Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked ; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 

O  solemn  hour! 

O  hidden  power! 

Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life! 

O  tender  strife! 

The  two  still  sat  together  there, 
The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 

O  voyage  fast! 

O  vanished  past ! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 
And  made  the  space  between  them  wide; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said, 
"Once  morel" 


49 


DRIFTING. 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  BEAD. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read,  artist  and  poet,  was  born  in  1822  and  died  in 
1872.  His  youth  was  spent  in  poverty  and  he  earned  a  miserable  exist- 
ence at  tailoring  and  cigarmaking.  He  played  on  the  stage  and  took 
to  painting  in  oils.  His  work  attracted  interest  and  he  opened  a  studio. 
About  the  same  time  he  began  writing,  alternating  the  brush  with  the 
pen.  His  best-known  poems  are  "Sheridan's  Ride"  and  "Drifting." 
He  published  a  volume  of  poetry  and  two  of  prose.  His  pictures  include 
portraits  of  Longfellow,  Dallas,  Ex-Queen  of  Naples,  Mrs.  Browning 
and  "The  Lost  Pleiad,"  "The  Star  of  Bethlehem,"  "Spirit  of  the  Water- 
fall,"  and  "Sheridan's  Ride." 

My  soul  today 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote: — 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim 

With  outstretched  hands 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

SO 


I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling-  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff; — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled; — 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail. 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines. 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Tier  children  hid, 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Arc  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid; 

Or  (\o\\n  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 


51 


The  fisher's  child 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips,  , 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  Traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows  ;•— 

This  happier  one 

Its  course  has  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anewl 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldy  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  I 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 


52 


DIRGE  FOR  A   SOLDIER. 


BY   GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

George  Henry  Boker,  the  American  poet,  wai  born  In  Philadelphia 
In  1S2S,  and  died  there  in  1890.  He  was  educated  at  Princeton,  and 
studied  law,  but  never  practiced.  In  1*71  he  was  made  Minister  Resi- 
dent to  Turkey,  and  from  1S75  to  1879  he  was  Minister  to  Russia.  He 
wrote  several  volumes  of  verse  and  the  tragedies  "Francesca  da 
Rimini,"   "Anne  Boleyn,"  and  "Leonore  de  Guzman." 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 

What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  might, 

Sleep  for  ever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 

What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low ! 


Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
I  .ay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cay,    he      He  cannot  know ; 
I,a\  him  low ! 


EVENING  SONG. 

BY  SIDNEY  LANIEK. 

Sidney  Lanier  was  born  at  Macon,  Ga.,  in  1842.  On  account  of  ill 
health  he  went  to  Baltimore,  where  for  a  while  he  played  the  flute  in 
the  famous  Peabody  concerts— he  was  passionately  fond  of  music  and 
brought  marvelous  harmonies  out  of  his  flute.  In  1879  he  became  lec- 
turer in  English  literature  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  university,  Baltimore. 
He  died  at  Lynn,  N.  C,  in  1881.  He  wrote  a  novel,  "Tiger  Lilies,"  "Cen- 
tennial Ode,"  "Science  of  English  Verse,"  "The  English  Novel  and  Its 
Development,"    and   a  volume   of   poems. 

Look  off,  dear  love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 

How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands, 
Ah!  longer,  longer,  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.  'Tis  done, 
Love,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands. 
O,  night!   divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart, 

Never  our  lips  our  hands. 


(cOPVIIIIIHT     BY    CHAHLM    SCBIBNER'S    SONS.) 


54 


THE   BRIDGE. 

BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  poems  of  this  well-loved  poet  are  the  stepping  stones  by  which 
every  American  child  ascends  to  the  realm  of  poetry. 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city 
Behind  the  dark  church  tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 
Rose  the  belated  tide, 

And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 
The  seaweed  floated   wide. 


55 


And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me — 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro — 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow! 

56 


And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes, 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadow  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And,  its  wavering  image  here. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY,  LIKE  THE  NIGHT. 

BY  LORD  BYRON. 


She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling  place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow 

Bttt  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent — 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

57 


THE   SPACIOUS   FIRMAMENT   ON   HIGH. 

BY  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

Joseph  Addison  was  born  at  Milston  in  1672.  He  went  to  Queen's 
College,  Oxford;  after  he  finished  his  course  he  traveled  on  the  conti- 
nent, studying  for  the  diplomatic  service.  Returning,  he  held  the 
position  of  Secretary  of  State,  1706-'S,  and  until  a  year  of  his  death  held 
different  political  positions.  He  wrote,  besides  his  famous  contributions 
to  the  Tatler,  and  Spectator,  "The  Campaign,"  a  treatise  on  Medals,  a 
"Letter  from  Italy,"  and  one  play  worthy  the  name,  "Cato."  He  died 
at  London  in  1719. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

58 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ; 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

LUCY. 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove; 

A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be : 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  O, 
The  difference  to  me ! 


-  ^-   -  f: 


ImS 


59 


AN  EMPEROR'S  DAUGHTER  STANDS  ALONE. 

BY  GEOFFKEY  CHAUCEE. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer,  often  called  the  father  of  English  verse,  was  born 
some  time  after  1340,  served  with  Edward  III.  in  the  French  campaigns 
and  was  imprisoned  in  France.  He  was  on  an  embassy  to  Genoa  in 
1372,  met  Petrarch,  and  got  from  him  the  tale  of  Griselda  and  other 
Italian  legends.  On  his  return  he  occupied  various  positions  of  trust, 
principally  of  a  diplomatic  nature.  His  last  days  were  spent  in  obscur- 
ity. He  died  in  London  in  1400,  and  was  buried  in  "Westminster  Abbey. 
His  "Canterbury  Tales,"  founded  for  the  most  part  upon  the  same 
stories  that  Boccaccio  and  other  writers  had  made  famous  in  prose, 
are  almost  the  first  evidence  of  the  influence  of  the  Italian  Renaissance 
upon  English  literature.  He  wrote  many  detached  pieces  as  well,  al- 
though his  reputation  rests  largely  upon  the  "Tales."  He  had  not  only 
the  true  poetic  instinct,  but  a  deep  knowledge  and  intense  love  of  nature, 
and  he  gave  a  great  inspiration  to  the  writers  of  the  golden  age  which 
followed  his  own.  As  Tennyson  says  of  him  in  "A  Dream  of  Fair 
Women:" 

"Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still." 

Have  ye  nat  seyn  som  tyme  a  pale  face 
Among  a  press,  of  hym  that  hath  be  lad 
Toward  his  deeth,  where  as  hym  gat  no  grace? 
And  swich  a  colour  in  his  face  hath  had, 
Men  myghte  knowe  his  face  that  was  bistad, 
Amonges  alle  the  faces  in  that  route; 
So  stant  Custance,  and  looketh  hire  aboute. 

O,  queenes,  lyvynge  in  prosperitee ! 
Duchesses,  and  ladyes  everichone! 
Haveth  som  routhe  on  hire  adversitee. 
An  Emperoures  doghter  stant  allone; 
She  hath  no  wight  to  whom  to  make  hir  mone ! 
O,  blood  roial,  that  stondest  in  this  drede, 

6o 


Fer  been  thy  freendes  at  thy  grete  nede! 

This  Alia,  kyng,  hath  swich  compassioun, 
As  gentil  herte  is  fulfild  of  pitee, 
That  from  hise  even  ran  the  water  doun. 
"Now  hastily  do  fecche  a  book,"  quod  he, 
"And  if  this  knyght  wol  sweren  how  that  she 
This  womman  slow,  vet  wol  we  us  avvse 
Whom  that  we  wole  that  shall  been  our  justise." 

A  Briton  book  written  with  Evaungiles 
Was  fet,  and  on  this  book  he  swore  anoon 
She  gilty  was,  and  in  the  meene  whiles 
An  hand  hym  smoot  upon  the  nekke  boon, 
That  doun  he  fil  atones  as  a  stoon ; 
And  bothe  hise  even  broste  out  of  his  face 
In  sighte  of  every  body  in  that  placet 

A  voys  was  herd  in  general  audience 
And  seyde,  "Thou  has  desclaundred,  giltlees, 
The  doghter  of  hooly  chirche  in  heigh  presence; 
Thus  hastou  doon,  and  yet  holde  I  my  pees." 
Of  this  mervaille  agast  was  al  the  prees: 
As  mazed  folk  they  stoden  everichone. 
For  drede  of  wreche,  save  Custance  allone. 

Greet  was  the  drede,  and  eek  the  repentance, 
Of  hem  that  hadden  wronge  suspecioun 
Upon  this  sely,  innocent  Custance ; 
And  for  this  miracle,  in  conclusion, 
And  by  Custance's  mcdiacioun, 
The  Kyng,  and  many  another  in  that  place 
Converted  was — thanked  be  Christes  grace! 


61 


DELIGHT   IN   DISORDER. 

BY  ROBERT  HERRICK. 

It  is  in  such  poems  as  the  following  one  that  Herrick  is  at  his  best; 
his  religious,  or,  as  he  called  them,  his  "noble  numbers,"  being  for  the 
most  part  inferior.  But  in  his  lyrics,  as  Austin  Dobson  says,  his  "num- 
bers are  of  gold." 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness ; 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown, 

Into  a  fine  distraction  ; 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Enthralls  the  crimson  stomacher; 

A  cuff  neglected,  and  thereby 

Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly; 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat; 

A  careless  shoestring,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility ; 

Doth  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 


OFT    IN   THE   STILLY   NIGHT. 

BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

E're  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  another  day  around  me : 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 

The  eyes  that  shone 

Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  linked  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 

I  feel  like  one 

Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 

Whose  lights  are  fled, 

Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed. 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

I'.'n-  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  d.-'  a  around  me. 

63 


JIM   BLUDSO. 

JOHN  HAT. 

John  Hay,  Secretary  of  State,  was  born  at  Salem,  Ind.,  on  Oct.  8, 
1838,  and  he  was  graduated  at  Brown  twenty  years  later.  He  studied 
law  in  Springfield,  111.,  and  in  1861  became  assistant  secretary  to  Presi- 
dent Lincoln.  He  saw  some  of  the  civil  war  as  an  aid-de-camp  under 
Generals  Hunter  and  Gilmore,  with  rank  of  Major  and  Assistant  Adju- 
tant General,  Brevet  Lieutenant  Colonel  and  Colonel.  He  was  First 
Assistant  Secretary  of  Legation  in  Paris  and  in  charge  several  times 
from  1865  to  1S67,  was  diplomat  in  charge  at  Vienna  1867-'68,  Secretary  of 
Legation  at  Madrid  1868-'70,  editorial  writer  for  five  years  of  the  New 
York  Tribune,  First  Assistant  Secretary  of  State,  and  Ambassador  to 
England.  He  is  the  author  of  "Pike  County  Ballads,"  "Castillian 
Days,"  and  part  author  of  a  life  of  Lincoln,  written  in  conjunction  with 
John  G.  Nicolay. 

Wall  no !  I  can't  tell  where  he  lives 

Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  years, 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle? 

He  weren't  no  saint — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-Under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here  in  Pike; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  man  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  flunked  and  he  never  lied — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had — 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 

64 


And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississipp, 

And  her  day  come  at  last — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed, 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier  bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  know'd  he  would  keep  his  word, 
And,  sure's  you're  born  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint — but  at  jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing — 
And  went  for  it  thar  and  then  ; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


65 


MORAL. 

BY  ALFKED  TENNYSON. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
Oh,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wildweed-flower  that  simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose? 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 
So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 
66 


BEDOUIN    LOVE   SONG. 

BY  BATAED  TAYLOR. 

From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire, 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night  winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 


My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 

To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 
The  word  thai  shall  give  me  rest. 

Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 
And  open  thy  chamber  door, 


67 


And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  un- 
fold! 

SALLY   IN   OUR  ALLEY. 

BY  HENKY  CAEEY. 

Little  is  known  of  this  English  poet  and  musical  composer  except 
that  he  was  born  near  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century— about  1693 — 
and  that  he  is  supposed  to  have  committed  suicide  at  London  in  1743. 
He  wrote  several  burlesques  and  farces,  but  is  chiefly  noted  as  th« 
author  of  "God  Save  the  King"  and  "Sally  in  Our  Alley." 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And,  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage  nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em ; 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday ; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

68 


My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon  time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


6o 


ELIA. 

BY  E.  J.  McPHELIM. 

Edward  J.  McPhelim,  a  singer  of  many  sweet  songs,  became  mute 
in  1896  at  an  age  all  too  young.  For  several  years  he  was  dramatic 
and  literary  critic  for  "The  Tribune,"  departments  in  which  his  rare 
critical  ability  and  wonderful  command  of  language  found  full  scope. 
His  poems,  which  have  never  been  collected,  contain  fancies  as  poetic 
and  delicate  as  any  in  the  English  tongue.  The  following,  on  Lamb  and 
his  sister,  is  significant,  considering  where  McPhelim's  last  days  were 
spent: 

Across  the  English  meadows  sweet, 
Across  the  smiling  sunset  land, 

I  see  them  walk  with  faltering  feet, 
Brother  and  sister,  hand  in  hand. 


They  know  the  hour  of  parting  nigh, 

They  pass  into  the  dying  day, 
And,  lo!  against  the  sunset  sky 

Looms  up  the  madhouse  gaunt  and  gray. 
70 


He  keeps  the  lonely  lamp  aglow, 
While  old  loves  whisper  in  the  air 

Of  unforgotten  long  ago 

Before  his  heart  had  known  despair. 

He  waits  till  she  may  come  once  more 
From  out  the  darkness  to  his  side, 

To  share  the  changeless  love  of  yore 
When  all  the  old,  old  loves  have  died. 

Between  me  and  this  gentle  book, 
Shining  with  humor  rich  and  quaint, 

The  sad  scene  rises,  and  I  look 
Upon  a  jester — or  a  saint. 

I  lift  my  eyes,  still  brimming  o'er 

With  love  and  laughter — and  there  falls 

Across  the  page  forever  more, 

The  shadow  of  the  madhouse  walls! 


SONG. 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 


r^r 


Hark,  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 
sings, 
And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

<  Mi  chaliced  (lowers  thai  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden 
With  everything  thai  prettj  bin, 

My  lady  BWeet,  an 
Arise,    an 

71 


LEAD,  KINDLY   LIGHT. 

BY  CAKDINAL  NEWMAN. 

Cardinal  Newman  was  born  in  London  in  1801  and  died  in  1890.  He 
graduated  from  Oxford,  and  was  ordained  in  1824.  He  was  the  recog- 
nized leader  of  the  high  church  party  in  England  until  1845,  when  he 
united  with  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  He  was  appointed  rector  of 
the  Catholic  university  at  Dublin  in  1854,  and  was  made  a  Cardinal  by 
the  Pope  in  1879. 

Lead,  kindly  Light  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet !   I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene;  one  step  enough  for  me. 


I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Should'st  lead  me  on; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
72 


I  loved  the  garish  day ;   and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will ;    remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  has  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on. 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone ; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


AN   UNTIMELY   THOUGHT. 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 

I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year — 

Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier? 

What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 

While  she  gives  the  last  touch  to  her  robe 
Or  sets  the  white  rose  in  her  hair. 

As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark  street 
The  little  wife  laughs  and  makes  cheer — 

But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wunder  what  month  of  the  year. 


73 


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:*■« 


PSALM   XIX. 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God;  and  the  firmament 
sheweth  his  handiwork. 

Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night  sheweth 
knowledge. 

There  is  no  speech  nor  language,  where  their  voice  is  not 
heard. 

Their  line  is  gone  out  through  all  the  earth,  and  their  words 
to  the  end  of  the  world.  In  them  hath  he  set  a  tabernacle  for 
the  sun. 

Which  is  as  a  bridegroom  coming  out  of  his  chamber  and 
rejoiceth  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race. 

His  going  forth  is  from  the  end  of  the  heaven,  and  his  circuit 
unto  the  ends  of  it;  and  there  is  nothing  hid  from  the  heat 
thereof. 

The  law  of  the  Lord  is  perfect,  converting  the  soul :  the 
testimony  of  the  Lord  is  sure,  making  wise  the  simple. 

The  statutes  of  the  Lord  are  right,  rejoicing  the  heart :  the 
commandment  of  the  Lord  is  pure,  enlightening  the  eyes. 

The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  clean,  enduring  forever:  the  judg- 
ments of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  altogether. 

More  to  be  desired  are  they  than  gold,  yea,  than  much  fine 
gold ;   sweeter  also  than  honey  and  the  honeycomb. 

Moreover,  by  them  is  thy  servant  warned :  and  in  keeping 
of  them  there  is  great  reward. 

Who  can  understand  his  errors?  Cleanse  thou  me  from 
secret  faults. 

Keep  back  thy  servant  also  from  presumptuous  sins;  let 
them  not  have  dominion  over  me :  then  shall  I  be  upright,  and 
I  shall  be  innocent  from  the  great  transgression. 

Let  the  words  of  my  mouth  and  the  meditation  of  my  heart 
be  acceptable  in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my  strength  and  my  re- 
deemer. 

74 


THE   POMPADOUR'S   FAN. 

BY  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

Austin  Dobson  Is  today,  as  he  has  been  for  years,  one  of  the  loading 
English  critics  and  writers  of  light  verse.  He  Is  an  authority  on  the 
literature  and  society  of  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth,  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  and  he  excels  In  verse  of  the  sort  here  printed. 

Chicken-skin,  delicate,  white, 

Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 

Roses  and  vaporous  blue; 
Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou! 

Picture  above,  if  you  can, 
Eyes  that  could  nick  as  the  dew — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan 

75 


See  how  they  rise  at  the  sight, 

Thronging  the  Oeil  de  Boeuf  through; 
Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 

Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 
Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 

Cardinal,  Duke — to  a  man, 
Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fanl 

Ah,  but  things  more  than  polite 

Hung  on  this  toy,  voyez-vousl 
Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 

Things  that  great  ministers  do ; 
Things  that,  may  be,  overthrew 

Those  in  whose  brains  they  began; 
Here  was  the  sigh  and  the  cue — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan! 

ENVOY 

Where  are  the  secrets  it  knew? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan  ? 
But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too? 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fanl 


THE  BANKS   O'  DOON. 

BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 
Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care! 
Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 
Departed — never  to  return! 


76 


Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 
To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 
And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
\\T  lightsome  heart  I  pn'd  a  rose, 
Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 
But,  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


1 


v. 


*J     "V. 

w 

f 

4> 

77 


BALLADE  OF  NICOLETE. 

BY  GRAHAM  E.  TOMSON. 

This  ballad  by  a  poet  of  our  own  time  finds  its  way  into  the  hearts 
of  those  who  have  read  and  loved  the  song-story  of  Aucassin  and 
Nicolete.  It  has  about  it  the  fragrance  and  naivete  of  that  "good  lay," 
it  contains  the  "force  and  freshness  of  young  passion,  the  troubadour's 
sweetness  of  literary  manner,"  as  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  says  of  another 
poem  on  the  same  subject  written  by  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

All  bathed  in  pearl  and  amber  light 

She  rose  to  fling  the  lattice  wide, 
And  leaned  into  the  fragrant  night, 

Where  brown  birds  sang  of  summertide ; 
('Twas  Love's  own  voice  that  called  and  cried). 

'Ah  Sweet !"  she  said,  "I'll  seek  thee  yet, 
Though  thorniest  pathways  should  betide 

The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete." 

They  slept,  who  would  have  staid  her  flight ; 

(Full  fain  were  they  the  maid  had  died)  ; 
She  dropped  adown  her  prison's  height 

On  strands  of  linen  featly  tied. 
And  so  she  passed  the  garden  side 

With  loose  leaved  roses  sweetly  set, 
And  dainty  daisies,  dark  beside 

The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete! 

Her  lover  lay  in  evil  plight 

(So  many  lovers  yet  abide!) 
I  would  my  tongue  could  praise  aright 

Her  name,  that  should  be  glorified. 
Those  lovers  now,  whom  foes  divide 

A  little  weep — and  soon  forget. 
How  far  from  these  faint  lovers  glide 

The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete. 

ENVOY. 

My  princess,  doff  thy  frozen  pride, 

Nor  scorn  to  pay  Love's  golden  debt, 
Through  his  dim  woodland  take  for  guide 

The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete. 


78 


NIGHT. 

BY  JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 

Joseph  Blanco  White  was  born  of  Irish  parents  in  Seville,  Spain, 
July  11,  1775,  and  was  put  in  training  for  a  mercantile  career,  but  he 
left  his  father's  counting  house  and  was  ordained  a  priest  in  1796,  and 
continued  in  the  priesthood  until  1S10,  when,  because  of  the  political 
crisis  in  Spain,  he  went  to  England,  residing  in  London  as  a  man  of 
letters,  where  he  contributed  largely  to  the  leading  reviews  and  period- 
icals, and  produced  several  books,  treating  mostly  of  Spain  and  its 
affairs.  He  died  in  May,  1S41.  His  "Sonnet  to  Night"  was  pronounced 
by  Coleridge  the  finest  in  the  English  language. 


Mysterious  Night  when  our  first  parent 

knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy 

name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue; 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  hue, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting 

flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And,  lo !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who    would    have    thought    such 

darkness    lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  could 

find, 
Whilst  flower  and  leaf  and  insect  stood 

revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind? 
Why    do    we   then    shun     death     with     anxious  strife — 
If  light  can  thus  deceive  us,  wherefore  not  life? 


79 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   RESOLUTION. 

BY  GEORGE  WITHER. 

George  Wither  was  born  at  Brentworth,  1588.  He  went  to  Magdalene 
College,  Oxford.  He  led  a  troop  of  Royalist  horse  against  the  Cove- 
nanters, but  three  years  later  he  became  a  Puritan  and  held  command 
in  Cromwell's  army.  He  was  imprisoned  during  the  Restoration  for  a 
time.  He  died  in  1667.  Wither  wrote,  besides  his  poems,  a  volume  of 
church  hymns,  several  satires,  and  a  translation  of  the  Psalms. 


Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheek  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flow'ry  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe. 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 


If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go, 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 


So 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   MYSTIC. 

BY  FATHER  RYAN. 

Father  Abram  Ryan  was  born  about  1834  some  say,  in  Limerick,  Ire- 
land, and  others,  Norfolk,  Va.,  while  still  others  say,  Hagerstown,  Md. 
He  lived  nearly  all  his  life  in  the  South.  He  was  educated  at  a  seminary 
at  Niagara,  N.  Y.,  was  ordained  to  the  priesthood  and  labored  in  many 
Southern  cities.  He  established  a  Catholic  newspaper  at  Augusta,  Ga. 
He  died  in  18S3.  He  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  South,  and,  aside 
from  his  devotional  poems,  none  of  his  writings  have  more  passion  or 
Bincerlty  than  those  commemorating  the  deeds  of  the  Confederate  army 
and  the  cause  for  which  it  fought. 


I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone ! 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown! 


81 


Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win ; 

Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  noises 
That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  places 

Where  I  met  but  the  human — and  sin. 


In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge 
A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care? 

It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there ; 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer. 


GO,    LOVELY  ROSE, 

BY  EDMUND  WALLEK. 

Edmund  Waller  was  born  in  Hertfordshire,  England,  in  1605.  He 
went  to  King's  College,  Cambridge.  Later  he  entered  parliament  and 
took  an  active  part  in  the  long  parliament.  In  1664  he  was  exiled  on 
account  of  participating  in  royalist  plots.  He  returned  to  England 
under  Cromwell's  administration.  He  died  at  Beaconsfield  in  1687.  Wal- 
ler's poems  were  first  published  in  1645 

Go,  lovely  rose! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


82 


Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair! 


83 


THE   LAST   LEAF. 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 


*  *  *  * 

An'd  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

.Where  I  cling. 


84 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT. 

BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn,  

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

W ork  !  work  !  work 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  oh !   to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  a  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work — work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam  and  gussett,  and  band, 

Band  and  gusset  and  seam, 

Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 

****** 

Oh,  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

Oh,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out 

But  human  creature's  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

Tn  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt. 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 


85 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

BY  SAMUEL  WOOD  WORTH. 

Samuel  Woodworth  was  born  at  Scituate,  Mass.,  in  1785,  and  was  the 
son  of  a  farmer  and  revolutionary  soldier.  He  had  no  educational 
advantages  until  taken  up  by  a  clergyman,  who  had  read  some  of  his 
poetical  writings  and  who  gave  him  instruction  in  the  classics.  Wood- 
worth  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer,  and  later  published  a  paper  of  his 
own,  of  which  he  was  editor,  printer,  and  carrier.  Later  he  removed 
to  New  York,  where  he  edited  magazines  and  wrote  a  number  of  vol- 
umes. His  patriotic  songs  of  the  war  of  1812  were  widely  popular.  His 
"Old  Oaken  Bucket"  will  always  hold  its  place  among  the  choicest  songs 
of  America.    "Woodworth  died  in  New  York  in  1842. 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the 

scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  pre* 

sents  them  to  view! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the 

deep-tangled  wildwood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which 

my  infancy  knew; 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and 

the  mill  which  stood  by  it 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock 

where  the  cataract  fell; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the 

dairy-house  nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket 

which  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the 

iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket 

which  hung  in  the  well. 


That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing! 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 

86 


Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And,  now  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 
This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturesome  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim,  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new. 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings  :- 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O,  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 


d^*™^ 


88 


"ONE   TOUCH   OF   NATURE." 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

["From  Troilus  and  Cressida."J 


For  time  is  like  a  fashionable 

host 
That   slightly    shakes   his   part- 
ing guest  by  the  hand, 
And  with  his  arms  outstretched, 

as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps-in  the  comer;  welcome 

ever  smiles, 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing. 

O,  let  not  virtue  seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it 

was; 
For  beauty,  wit, 
High  birth,  vigor  of  bone,  de- 
sert in  service, 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are 

subjects  all 


To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 

One   touch   of   nature   makes   the   whole   world 

kin — 
That    all,    with    one    consent,    praise    new-born 

gauds, 
Though   they  are  made  and   molded   of  things 

past, 
And  give  to  dust  that  is  a  little  gilt 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'er  dusted. 


89 


A  REQUIEM. 

BY  KOBEKT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  the  son  of  a  lighthouse  engineer,  was  born 
at  Edinburgh  in  1850.  He  studied  in  the  university  of  that  city  and  be- 
came a  lawyer,  though  he  never  practiced.  On  account  of  his  ill-health 
he  went  to  Samoa,  where  he  lived  with  his  family  and  wrote  his  books. 
He  died  in  1894.  A  few  of  his  stories  are:  "Treasure  Island,"  "Kid- 
napped," "New  Arabian  Nights,"  "St.  Ives";  his  essays  are,  "Virginibus 
Puerisque,"  "Travels  of  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes,"  and  "Familiar 
Studies  on  Men  and  Books." 


Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie, 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me; 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


REOUIESCAT 

BY  MATTHEW  AENOLD. 

Matthew  Arnold,  son  of  the  famous  head  master  of  Rugby,  was  born 
at  Laleham,  Middlesex,  1S22.  He  studied  at  Winchester,  Rugby,  and 
Baliol  college,  Oxford,  and  was  a  fellow  of  Oriel.  In  1851  he  was  made 
lay  inspector  of  schools,  and  in  '57  received  the  appointment  of  pro- 
fessor of  poetry  at  Oxford.  He  died  at  Liverpool  in  1888.  He  wrote 
"Empedocles  on  Etna,"  "Essays  in  Criticism,"  "Study  of  Celtic  Litera- 
ture," "Culture  and  Anarchy,"  and  other  books  of  essays. 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew ! 
In  quiet  she  reposes; 

Ah !  would  that  I  did,  too. 


90 


Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee, 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound ; 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd  ample  spirit, 

It  flutter'd  and  fail'd  for  breath ; 
To-night  it  doth  inherit 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


9.1 


AT   THE   CHURCH   GATE. 

BY  W.  M.  THACKEEAY. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  was  born  at  Calcutta  In  1811.  He  was 
brought  up  in  England,  where  he  went  to  Charterhouse  school  and  later 
to  Trinity  college,  Cambridge.  He  left  college  after  one  year's  study 
and  went  to  Paris,  where  he  studied  with  the  hope  of  becoming  an 
artist.  His  first  contributions  in  the  way  of  writing  were  to  Frazer's 
Magazine,  and  among  them  were  his  famous  "Yellowplush  Papers."  He 
wrote  other  satires  and  humorous  ballads  for  Punch.  Thackeray  was 
the  first  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  which  is  still  in  publication. 
He  died  in  London  in  1863. 


Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither 
With  modest  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes — she's  here,  she's  past! 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 


But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


92 


HED   HAD   NO   SHOW. 

BY  SAM  WALTER  FOSS. 
Joe  Beall  'ud  set  upon  a  keg 

Down  to  the  groc'ry  store,  an'  throw 
One  leg  right  over  t'other  leg 

An'  swear  he'd  never  had  no  show, 
"O,  no,"  said  Joe, 
"Hain't  hed  no  show," 
Then  shif  his  quid  to  t'other  jaw, 
An'  chaw,  an'  chaw,  an'  chaw,  an'  chaw. 

He  said  he  got  no  start  in  life, 

Didn't  get  no  money  from  his  dad, 
The  washin'  took  in  by  his  wife 
Earned  all  the  funds  he  ever  had. 
"O,  no,"  said  Joe, 
"Hain't  hed  no  show," 
An'  then  he'd  look  up  at  the  clock 
An'  talk,  an'  talk,  an'  talk,  an'  talk. 

"I've  waited  twenty  year — let's  see — 

Yes,  twenty-four,  an'  never  struck, 
Altho'  I've  sot  roun'  patiently, 

The  fust  tarnation  streak  er  luck, 

O,  no,"  said  Joe, 
"Hain't  hed  no  show," 
Then  stuck  like  mucilage  to  the  spot, 
An'  sot,  an'  sot,  an'  sot,  an'  sot. 


"I've  come  down  regerler  every  day 
For  twenty  years  to  Piper's  store. 
I've  sot  here  in  a  patient  way, 

Say,  hain't  I,  Piper?"     Piper  swore. 
"I  tell  ye,  Joe, 
Ycr  hain't  no  show ; 
Yer  too  dcrn  patient" — ther  hull  raft 
Jest  laffcd,  an*  laffed,  an'  laffed,  an'  latfed. 


93 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

BY  JOHN  LOGAN. 

John  Logan  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1748.  He  wrote  lyric  poems  and 
published  his  poems  in  collaboration  with  Michael  Bruce  in  1770.  This 
double  volume  of  poems  led  probably  to  the  confusion  of  the  authorship 
of  the  "Ode  to  the  Cockoo."  The  question  is  still  debated,  but  the  poem 
is  generally  attributed  to  Logan.    He  died  in  1788  at  London. 


Hail  beauteous  stranger  of  the 
grove ! 
Thou  messenger  of  Spring! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy   rural 
seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  ring. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the 
green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

Delightful  visitant!    with  thee 
I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music 
sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year ! 

O,  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  oe'r  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 


94 


HER   MORAL. 

BY    THOMAS    HOOD. 
Gold!   Gold!   Gold!   Gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammered,  and  rolled ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold ; 
Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled ; 
Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by 

the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard 

mould ; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold. 


Gold!    Gold!    Gold!    Gold! 

Good  or  bad  a  thousandfold ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary — 

To  save — to  ruin — to  curse — to  bless — 

As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 

Now   stamp'd   with  the  image  of  Good 

Queen   Bess 
And  now  of  a  bloody  Mary. 


' 

>    '•    iv' 

/£ 

/           ■■ 

*       -  ~^> 

*w-<-* 

' 

95 


SERENADE. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light  I 

She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light! 

She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

IWind  of  the  summer  night! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch,  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 


96 


ODE  ON   A   GRECIAN   URN. 

BY  JOHN  KEATS. 

John  Keats  was  born  at  London  in  1795.  He  studied  medicine,  bu* 
after  passing  his  examinations  he  never  practiced.  About  this  time  he 
became  acquainted  with  Shelley,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Haydon.  In  1S20  he 
went  to  Naples  on  account  of  his  health,  and  from  there  to  Rome,  where 
he  died  In  1S21.  His  longer  poems  are:  "Endymion"  (which  poem  was 
most  severely  criticised  at  the  time  of  Its  publication),  "Lamia,"  "Isa- 
bella," and  "The  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes." 


Thou  still  unravished  bride  of 
quietness, 
Thou  foster  child  of  Silence 
and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus 
express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly 
than  our  rhyme; 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts 
about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of 
both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these? 
What  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  strug- 
gles to  escape? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels? 
W'hat  wild  ecstasy? 

Hear'd  melodies  are  sweet,  but 
those  unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft 
pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more 
endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no 
tone; 


97 


Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 

Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet  do  not  grieve, 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

O,  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude !   with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :    Cold  pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty" — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  truth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

TO   ALTHEA  FROM   PRISON. 

BY  KICHAKD  LOVELACE. 

This   lyric   of   Richard    Lovelace's   is,    with    the    "Lucasta,"    the   beat 
known  and  most  often  quoted  of  his  poems. 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  with  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty 

When  flowing  cups  pass  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

98 


When  linnet-like  confined, 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
Thy  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  king; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
The  enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


99 


SONG. 

BY  JOHN  BUNYAN. 

John  Bunyan  was  born  at  Elstow  in  1628.  He  was  a  tinker,  as  his 
father  was  before  him,  but  he  finally  became  a  soldier  in  the  parlia- 
mentary army.  In  1653  he  became  a  nonconformist  and  went  about  the 
country  preaching  until  he  was  arrested  under  the  statutes  against  that 
doctrine.  While  in  prison  Bunyan  began  his  well-known  allegory— 
"Pilgrim's  Progress."  Under  Charles  II.  he  was  released  and  made 
pastor  at  Bedford.    He  died  at  London  in  1688. 


He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall ; 

He  that  is  low,  no  pride ; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 

Have  God  to  be  his  guide. 

I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much ; 
And,  Lord,  contentment  still  I  crave, 

Because  thou  savest  such. 

Fullness  to  such  a  burden  is 

That  go  on  pilgrimage ; 
Here  little,  and  hereafter  bliss, 

Is  best  from  age  to  age. 


&**•■ 


IOO 


BELIEVE   ME,   IF  ALL  THOSE    ENDEARING 

YOUNG  CHARMS. 

BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  when  the  star  of  Moore  was 
at  its  zenith,  no  song  was  more  popular  than  this,  perhaps  as  much  for 
the  charming  air  to  which  it  is  set  as  for  the  beauty  and  rhythm  of  its 
words. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  today, 
Were  to  change  by  tomorrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  ador'd,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofan'd  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear ; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  surely  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose. 


IOI 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US. 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late 

and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste 

our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a 

sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to 
the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not — Great  God !    I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less   for- 
lorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn! 


I02 


ODE  ON  SOLITUDE 

BY  ALEXANDER  POPE. 

Pope  was  born  at  London  in  1GSS.  He  had  no  school  education,  as  he 
was  always  sickly,  but  he  learned  Latin  and  Greek  from  several  friends. 
By  the  time  he  was  17  tie  was  an  acknowledged  wit  and  critic.  His  first 
published  poem  was  "The  Pastorals,"  1709;  then  followed  "The  Rape  of 
the  Lock,"  his  best  satirical  poem,  and  the  next  year  (1713)  he  began  his 
translation  of  the  "Iliad."    He  died  at  Twickenham  in  1744. 


Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 

Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 


Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire ; 

Whose  trees  in  summer  yield,  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away; 

In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night,  study  and  ease, 

Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation ; 
And  innocence,  which  most  doth  please, 

With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown ; 

Thus,  unlamented,  let  me  die, 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 

Tell  where  I  lie. 


■  <^"->  pi 


3& 

m—JPZm  -   II.' 


103 


PATRIOTISM. 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Sir  "Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh  in  1771.  He  first  began 
bis  writing  by  translating  Burger  and  Goethe,  but  he  left  this  work  to 
take  up  the  Border  Minstrelsy  of  his  own  country.  In  1814  he  published 
the  first  of  the  well-known  "Waverley"  novels.  He  sold  his  copyrights  to 
the  firm  of  Constable,  and  as  the  house  failed  a  few  years  later  Scott 
was  heavily  involved.  As  he  had  also  recently  bought  and  repaired  the 
estate  of  Abbotsford,  he  was  in  debt  for  that  also.  In  spite  of  ill  health 
he  wrote  incessantly  in  order  to  meet  his  bills,  and  gave  to  the  world  the 
novels  and  poems  with  which  all  are  so  familiar.     He  died  in  1832. 


reathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land!" 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ! 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim — 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
J  To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


104 


ROCKED   IN   THE   CRADLE   OF   THE   DEEP. 

BY  EMMA  WILLABD. 

Emma  Willard,  the  American  educator  and  author,  was  one  of  a 
family  of  seventeen  children  Her  maiden  name  was  Hart.  She  was 
born  at  Berlin,  Conn.,  in  1TS7.  S^e  began  teaching  in  the  village  school 
and  later  became  principal  of  a  girls"  college  at  Westneld,  Conn.,  and 
after  her  marriage  to  Dr.  John  Willard  in  1S14,  opened  a  boarding  school 
at  Middlebury,  Conn,  into  which  she  introduced  new  methods  and  new 
studies.  The  school  was  removed  to  Troy,  N.  Y.,  and  became  the  Troy 
Female  Academy.  Retiring  from  the  school  in  1S58,  Mrs.  Willard  spent 
the  remaining  years  of  her  life  in  revising  her  text  books  and  writing  a 
volume  of  poems.     She  died  in  1S76. 


xiaK^i. 


Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 
jl  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave, 
For  Thou,  O  Lord,  hast  power  to  save. 

I  know  Thou  wilt  not  slight  my  call, 
For  Thou  dost  mark  the  sparrow's  fall ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine, 
Though  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  though  the  tempest's  fiery  breath 
Roused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death. 


L 


In  ocean's  caves  still  safe  with  Thee, 
The  germ  of  immortality ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 


io5 


THE  CRY   OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

BY  ELIZABETH  BAEBETT  BBOWNING. 

The  influence  of  poetry  is  greater  than  is  generally  realized,  and 
many  find  inspiration  to  action  in  reading  it.  Mrs.  Browning  in  this 
pathetic  poem  did  much  to  rouse  England  to  the  evil  of  child  labor  and 
to  perceive  the  wrongs  done  the  little  ones  toiling  in  its  factories  and 
coal  mines  far  beyond  their  strength. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O,  my  brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 

But  the  young,  young  children,  O,  my  Drothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark; 
And  the  children's  souls  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 


106 


ABOU   BEN   ADHEM   AND   THE   ANGEL. 

BY  LEIGH  HUNT. 

Janiea  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  was  born  at  Southgate  in  1784.  He  was  an 
essayist,  an  author,  and  a  poet,  chief  among  his  poems  being  "The  Story 
of  Rimini."     He  died  at  Putney  in  1859. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 

And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  of  his  room, 

Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold — 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

"What  writest  thou?"     The  vision  raised  its  head, 

And  with  a  look  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 

Answer'd,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 

"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerily  still,  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellowmen." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanish'd.     The  next  night 

It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  bless'd, 

And  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


107 


BUGLE   SONG. 

BY  ALFEED  TENNYSON. 

This  poem  is  one  of  the  lyrics  from  the  "Princess,"  yet  there  is  so 
little  connection  between  the  story  and  these  five  or  six  charming  songs 
embedded  within  the  mock  heroic  poem  that  one  does  not  think  of  them 
as  part  of  the  medley. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  (lying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!   how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 
Blow,  bugle ;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


108 


OPPORTUNITY. 

BY  JOHN  J.  INGALLS. 

John  James  Ingalls  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1833  and  was  gradu- 
ated from  Williams  College  in  1S55.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1S57,  and  removed  to  Atchison.  Kas.,  in  1859.  He  took  an  active  interest 
in  the  exciting  Kansas  politics,  and.  besides  serving  as  a  delegate  to 
the  Wyandotte  convention  that  framed  the  State  constitution,  he  served 
as  secretary  to  the  Territorial  Council.  In  1S62  he  was  a  State  Senator. 
He  edited  the  Atchison  Champion  for  three  years  and  served  in  the 
State  militia.  In  1873  he  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate,  and 
then  began  his  remarkably  brilliant  political  career.  After  serving 
twenty  years  he  was  retired  by  the  political  revolution  In  his  State. 
As  an  orator  he  held  high  rank.  He  frequently  contributed  to  the  lead- 
ing magazines  and  reviews.    He  died  about  two  years  ago. 


Master  of  human  destinies  am  I. 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps 

wait, 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk ;  I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and,  passing  by 
Hovel,  and  mart,  and  palace,  soon  or  late 
I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate! 
If  sleeping,  wake — if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away.     It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 
Save  death  ;   but  those  who  doubt  or 

hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury  and  woe, 
Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore — 
I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more. 


*^-^*" 


<?•> 


109 


MIGNON'S   SONG  FROM   "WILHELM 

MEISTER." 

"After  having  sung  the  song  a  second  time,  she  paused  for  a  moment, 
and,  attentively  surveying  Wilhelm,  she  asked  him,  'Know'st  thou  the 
land?'  'It  must  be  Italy!'  he  replied,"— Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprentice- 
ship. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  lemon  tree  blows — 
Where  deep  in  the  bower  the  gold  orange  grows? 
Where  zephyrs  from  heaven  die  softly  away, 
And  the  laurel  and  myrtle  tree  never  decay  ? 
Know'st  thou  it?     Thither,  O!   thither  with  thee, 
My  dearest,  my  fondest !  with  thee  would  I  flee. 

Know'st  thou  the  hall  with  its  pillared  arcades, 
Its  chambers  so  vast  and  its  long  colonnades? 
Where  the  statues  of  marble  with  features  so  mild 
Ask  "Why  have  they  used  thee  so  harshly,  my  child  ?" 
Know'st  thou  it  ?    Thither,  O !  thither  with  thee, 
My  guide,  my  protector  1  with  thee  would  I  flee. 

Know'st  thou  the  Alp  which  the  vapor  enshrouds, 
Where  the  bold  muleteer  seeks  his  way  thro'  the  clouds? 
In  the  cleft  of  the  mountain  the  dragon  abides, 
And  the  rush  of  the  stream  tears  the  rock  from  its  sides ; 
Know'st  thou  it?     Thither,  O!   thither  with  thee, 
Leads  our  way,  father — then  come,  let  us  flee. 


no 


PSALM   LXXXIV. 

How  amiable  are  thy  tabernacles,  O  Lord  of  hosts ! 

My  soul  longeth,  yea,  even  fainteth  for  the  courts  of  the 
Lord ;  my  heart  and  my  flesh  crieth  out  for  the  living  God. 

Yea,  the  sparrow  hath  found  an  house,  and  the  swallow  a 
nest  for  herself,  where  she  may  lay  her  young,  even  thine 
altars,  O  Lord  of  hosts,  my  King  and  my  God. 

Blessed  are  they  that  dwell  in  thy  house ;  they  will  be  still 
praising  thee.      Selah. 

Blessed  is  the  man  whose  strength  is  in  thee;  in  whose 
heart  are  the  ways  of  them. 

Who,  passing  through  the  valley  of  Baca,  make  it  a  well ; 
the  rain  also  filleth  the  pools. 

They  go  from  strength  to  strength ;  every  one  of  them  in 
Zion  appeareth  before  God. 

O  Lord  God  of  hosts,  hear  my  prayer;  give  ear,  O  God  of 
Jacob.     Selah. 

Behold,  O  God  our  shield,  and  look  upon  the  face  of  thine 
anointed. 

For  a  day  in  thy  courts  is  better  than  a  thousand.  I  had 
rather  be  a  doorkeeper  in  the  house  of  my  God  than  to  dwell 
in  the  tents  of  wickedness. 

For  the  Lord  God  is  a  sun  and  shield ;  the  Lord  will  give 
grace  and  glory ;  no  good  thing  will  he  withhold  from  them 
that  walk  uprightly. 

O  Lord  of  hosts,  blessed  is  the  man  that  trusteth  in  thee. 


ill 


THANATOPSIS. 

BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BEYANT. 

This  imperishable  poem  was  written  by  William  Cullen  Bryant  when 
he  was  18  years  old.  It  was  sent  to  the  North  American  Review  either 
by  the  poet  or  his  father.  Richard  Henry  Dana  of  the  Review  supposed 
the  writer  to  be  some  one  of  international  repute.  The  poet's  father 
was  then  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  senate.  Dana  went  to  the 
statehouse  to  call  on  him,  but  the  appearance  of  Dr.  Bryant  seemed  to 
satisfy  Dana  that  he  must  look  elsewhere  for  the  author,  and  so  he 
returned  to  Cambridge  without  an  interview  with  the  senator.  Later 
he  learned  that  the  author  was  the  doctor's  son. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  nature,  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language;    for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty;   and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice :    Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground 

112 


Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting  place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun;   the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 

The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 

That  make  the  meadows  green  ;   and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.      Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  P.arcan  wilderness, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

When-  rolls  the  (  )regon  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there! 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  !  ep — the  dead  reign  there  alone! 

So  shalt  thou  rot ;   and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

"3 


In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray  headed  man — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed! 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
?„ike  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


«4 


THE   NIGHT   HAS   A   THOUSAND   EYES. 

BY  FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON. 

Francis  William  Bourdlllon  was  born  in  Woolbeddins  in  1S52.  He 
received  his  education  at  Worcester  College,  Oxford,  and  was  afterwards 
a  private  tutor  to  the  sons  of  the  Prince  and  Princess  Christian.  A  few 
of  his  published  works  are,  "Among  the  Flowers  and  Other  Poems," 
1S74;  "Ailes  dAlouette,"  1891;  "A  Lost  God,"  1892;  and  "Sursum  Corda," 
1893. 


ii5 


THE  HERITAGE. 

BY  JAMES  BUSSELL  LOWELL. 


The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares; 
And  soft,  white  hands  could  scarcely  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  lee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare; 

[With  sated  heart  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 


116 


What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Wishes  o'er  joyed  with  humble  things, 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment  springs. 

A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor; 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it. 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O,  rich  man's  son !  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O,  poor  man's  son !   scorn  not  thy  state ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

117 


Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well  filled  past — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

1  l'  w  -  u 


A  DITTY. 

BY  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given; 

I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven; 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides; 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his. 


118 


PSALM   CXXI. 


I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
my  help. 

My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  which  made  heaven  and 
earth. 

He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved ;  he  that  keepeth 
thee  will  not  slumber. 

Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber  nor 
sleep. 

The  Lord  is  thy  keeper ;  the  Lord  is  thy  shade  upon  thy 
right  hand. 

The  sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day,  nor  the  moon  by 
night. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all  evil ;  he  shall  pre- 
serve thy  soul. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy  coming 
in  from  this  time  forth  and  even  for  evermore. 


119 


THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER. 

BY  FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY. 

Francis  Scott  Key  was  born  in  Frederick  County,  Maryland,  in  17S0. 
He  was  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems  published  in  1S57,  but  the  poem 
that  will  keep  him  alive  in  the  memory  of  the  nation  is  his  "Star 
Spangled  Banner."  This  poem  was  written  on  shipboard  during  the 
war  of  1812,  while  the  English  were  bombarding  Fort  McHenry.  Mr.  Key 
died  at  Baltimore  in  1843. 

O !  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  thro'  the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  thro'  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 
O !  say,  does  that  star  spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  thro'  the  mists  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
'Tis  the  star  spangled  banner,  O,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution; 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
'From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 
And  the  star  spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


I20 


0 !  thus  be  it  ever  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation; 
Blest  with  vict'ry  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  God  is  our  trust." 
And  the  star  spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


FROM   "IN   MEMORIAM." 

BY  ALFEED  TENNYSON. 

O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

iWhen  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain, 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shriveled  in  a  fruitless  lire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 


*> 


121 


So  runs  my  dream :     But  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light; 
And  with  no  language  bat  a  cry. 

The  wish  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


fESowi] 


122 


I   REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER. 

BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 
I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 


I  remember,  I  remember 
Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

123 


My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

MARY'S   DREAM. 

BY  JOHN  LOWE. 

John  Lowe,  the  author  of  this  poem,  was  born  at  Kenmure,  parish 
of  Kells,  Kircudbrightshire,  Scotland,  in  1750.  His  father  was  a  gard- 
ener, and  at  the  age  of  14  John  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver,  but  in. 
1771  he  was  enabled  to  go  to  the  University  of  Edinburg.  Later  ho 
entered  the  family  of  Mr.  McGhie  of  Airds,  whose  house  was  located 
on  an  elevated  piece  of  ground  washed  by  the  Dee  and  Ken,  a  spot 
reverenced  by  Lowe  for  its  beauty.  Within  the  grounds  he  erected  a 
rural  seat  environed  with  honeysuckle,  woodbine,  and  other  shrubs, 
which  is  known  to  this  day  as  "Lowe's  Seat,"  and  there  he  composed 
many  of  his  most  beautiful  verses. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 

That  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree; 
When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea; 
When,  soft  and  low,  a  voice  was  heard, 

Saying,  "Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me." 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale  and  hollow  e'e. 
"O,  Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay, 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea; 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  sleep  in  death, 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me. 

124 


"Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main; 
And  long  we  strove  our  barque  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
Even  then,  when  horror  chilled  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee. 
The  storm  is  past  and  I  at  rest, 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me. 

"O,  maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare! 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more !" 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled ; 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see, 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

"Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me!" 


125 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

BY  T.  W.  PAESONS. 

Thomas  William  Parsons  was  born  at  Boston  in  1S18.  He  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  in  Europe.  In  1867  he  translated  Dante's  "In- 
ferno." In  1854  he  published,  under  the  title  "Ghetto  di  Roma,"  a  col- 
lection of  his  poems.    He  died  at  Scituate,  Mass.,  in  1892. 

See,  from  his  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song! 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn  abide; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 
126 


Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was,  but  a  fight; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe ; 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 


T27 


BALLAD  OF  OLD  TIME  LADIES. 

BY  FEANCOIS  VILLON. 

This  ballad,  of  which  we  give  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti's  translation, 
was  written  by  Villon  in  1450.  There  are  many  translations  of  the 
poems  of  that  beggar,  poet,  thief— that  first  lucid  poet  of  France.  An- 
drew Lang  has  interpreted  him  in  one  way,  John  Payne  in  another. 
The  following  translation  is,  perhaps,  the  happiest  of  this  particular 
poem,  though  the  ballad  cannot  but  lose  some  of  its  spirit  in  an  English 
rendering. 

Tell  me,  now,  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais — 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 
Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 

Only  heard  on  river  and  mere — 
She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer, 
Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth,  down  the  Seine? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 

With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden — 
Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde,  the  lady  of  the  Maine — 
And  that  good  Joan,  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed,  and  burned  her  there — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they,  then? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear? 


228 


SONG  OF   THE   WESTERN   MEN. 

BY  ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER. 

Mr.  Hawker  was  a  clergyman,  born  at  Plymouth,  England,  In  1804, 
and  died  there  in  1S75.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford  and  became  a  noted 
figure  in  the  church.  He  was  a  stalwart  and  heroic  character.  In  1SJ4 
he  became  vicar  of  a  lonely  parish  on  the  Cornwall  coast.  His  "Echoes 
From  Old  Cornwall"  appeared  in  1S4">;  "Cornish  Ballads"  in  1SG9.  Shortly 
before  his  death  he  joined  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 


A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand ! 

And  merry  heart  and  true ! 
King  James'  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when? 

And  shall  Trelawney  die? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why ! 

Out  spake  their  Captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he; 
''If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawney  free! 

"We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay; 
With  'one  and  all'  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

"And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come   forth !     Come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 
Here's  men  as  good  as  you ! 


"Trelawney  he's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawney  he  may  die ; 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold, 

Will  know  the  reason  win!" 


129 


THE  SHEPHERDESS. 

BY  ALICE  MEYNELL. 

Mrs.  Meynell  is  considered  by  many  critics  as  the  most  elegant  poet 
in  England  at  this  present  time.  She  has  written,  besides  several  vol- 
umes of  verse,  two  or  three  books  of  essays:  "The  Color  of  Life,"  "The 
Rhythm  of  Life,"  and  "The  Children." 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.    She  keeps  them  white ; 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep. 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 

And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  her  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
130 


She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight, 
Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 

She  is  so  circumspect  and  right ; 
She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 


INVICTUS. 

BY  W.  E.  HENLEY. 

William  Ernest  Henley  was  born  in  England  about  1S50.  In  1S88  he 
became  editor  of  the  Scots  Observer,  and  in  the  same  year  published 
his  first  volume  of  poems — "A  Book  of  Verses."  He  is  a  writer  and  a 
critic  as  well  as  a  poet. 


Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 


In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
*     I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud ; 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbow'd. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 


It  matters  not  how  straight  the  gate. 
Now  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  run  the  master  of  my  fate  ; 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 


I3T 


TIS   THE   LAST   ROSE   OF   SUMMER. 

BY  THOMAS  MOOEE. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone; 
■    No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh, 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
132 


Thus  kindly  I  scatter 
Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 

Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 


MUSIC,   WHEN    SOFT   VOICES   DIE. 

BY  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory ; 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heapt  for  the  beloved  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts  when  thou  art  gone: 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


133 


A  SEA  SONG. 

BY  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

"And  who  shall  sing  the  glory  of  the  deep"  better  than  Allan  Cun- 
ningham has  done  in  this  song  of  a  sailor's  love,  a  poet's  love,  for 
the  sea? 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

And  a  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 


Oh,  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 

134 


And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 
There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

SONG   FROM   "PIPPA   PASSES." 

BY  ROBEKT  BROWNING. 

Robert  Browning  was  born  at  Camberwell  in  1812.  He  was  educated 
at  the  London  University.  While  his  wife  lived  Browning  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  Florence— later  he  divided  his  time  between  London  and 
Venice.  He  died  at  Venice  in  1889.  His  poems  have  been  collected  into 
several  volumes  under  the  titles  of  "Men  and  Women,"  "Dramatis  Per- 
■onae,"   "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"   "Dramatic  Idylls,"  and  "Sordello." 


The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven ; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled. 
The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn ; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's   right  with  the  world! 


r~ 


rsjmS; 


' 


+J:.\Luh 


135 


THE  WAITING. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEE. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1807.  He  wai 
successively  the  editor  of  the  "American  Manufacturer,"  the  "Haver- 
hill Gazette,"  and  the  "New  England  Weekly  Review."  In  1836  he  went 
to  Philadelphia  to  edit  the  "Pennsylvania  Freeman,"  for  he  was  an 
abolitionist  of  strong  principle.    He  died  in  1892. 

I  wait  and  watch;  before  my  eyes 

Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray; 
I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 
I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snow ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet 
The  thrashing  floors  of  God  to  beat, 
And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair, 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me; 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine ; 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood ; 
IFor  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 

And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

O,  power  to  do !  O,  baffled  will ! 

O,  prayer  and  action!  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive  may  yet  fulfill 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done! 
136 


A    MATCH. 


BY  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 
This  poem  is  an  excellent  example  of  Swinburne's  wonderful  lnveot- 
lv«ness  in  the  meter  of  his  verses. 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Jilown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day,  like  night,  were  shady, 
And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 


•    .^gni 


If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying  feather, 
And  teach  his  feel  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein  ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


COUNSEL   TO   VIRGINS. 

BY  EOBEET  HEEBICK. 

The  advice  contained  in  this  poem  is  not  given  so  subtly  nor  so 
gracefully  as  it  is  in  the  other  two  poems  of  the  trio— Ronsard's  and 
Waller's—  but  the  writer  is  neither  a  sweet  singer  like  Ronsard  nor  a 
poet  of  nicer  instincts  like  Waller.  He  was  a  man  who  did  not  scruple 
to  "sully  the  purity  of  his  style  with  impurity  of  sentiment." 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-daVj 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  Heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 


138 


The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And,  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 


WHY   SO   PALE   AND   WAN? 

BY  SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 

Sir  John  Suckling  was  born  In  Wbitton  in  1609.  Ho  went  to  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  and  afterwards  entered  the  service  of  the  King, 
Charles  I.  He  fought  in  the  army  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  in  1631-'32; 
while  in  1639  he  levied  a  troop  of  horse  against  the  Covenanters.  He 
was  a  member  of  the  long  parliament  in  1640.  The  next  year  he  was 
charged  with  high  treason  and  fled  to  Paris,  where  he  was  supposed  to 
have  committed  suicide  in  1642.  Though  he  wrote  several  plays,  he  Is 
chiefly   noted   for   his   poems. 


Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame;  this  will  not  move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her; 

The  devil  take  her ! 


139 


THALASS  A !     THALASSA ! 

BY  BEOWNLEE  BROWN. 

Of  this  poem  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  says  (in  the  Outlook, 
February,  1890):  "It  is  so  magnificent  that  it  cheapens  most  of  its  con- 
temporary literature,  and  is  alone  worth  a  life  otherwise  obscure.  When 
all  else  of  American  literature  has  vanished,  who  knows  but  that  some 
single  masterpiece  like  this  may  remain  to  show  the  high  water  mark 
not  merely  of  a  poet  but  of  a  nation  and  a  civilization?" 

I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  my  life, 

Behind,  the  camp,  the  court,  the  field,  the  grove, 

The  battle,  and  the  burden :  vast,  afar 

Beyond  these  weary  ways,  behold,  the  Sea ! 

The  sea,  o'erswept  by  clouds,  and  winds,  and  wings; 

By  thoughts  and  wishes  manifold ;  whose  breath 

Is  freshness,  and  whose  mighty  pulse  is  peace. 

Palter  no  question  of  the  horizon  dim — 

Cut  loose  the  bark !     Such  voyage  itself  is  rest ; 

Majestic  motion,  unimpeded  scope, 

A  widening  heaven,  a  current  without  care, 

Eternity!     Deliverance,  promise,  course, 

Time  tired  souls  salute  thee  from  the  shore. 


140 


AN   INDIAN   SERENADE. 

BY  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Percy  By9she  Shelley  was  born  in  Sussex,  England,  In  1792.  He  was 
educated  at  Eton  and  later  at  University  College,  Oxford.  When  he 
was  19  Shelley  married  Harriet  Westbrook,  but  after  meeting  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  he  left  Harriet  and  went  to  Switzerland  with  Mary. 
Harriet  drowned  herself  in  1S16,  and  Shelley  married  Mary.  In  1818  they 
went  to  Italy,  where  they  lived,  for  the  rest  of  Shelley"s  life,  with 
Byron,  Trelawney,  Edward  Williams,  and  Hunt.  Shelley  and  Williams 
were  drowned  in  the  bay  of  Spezzia  in  1822,  and  their  bodies  were  burned 
on  a  funeral  pyre. 


I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
.When  the  winds  are  .breathing  low 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

In  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
And  the  champak  odors  pine 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

Oh,  beloved  as  thou  art! 

Oh,  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

I  die !    I  faint !    I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 


My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 
Oh,  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 


14  r 


THE  FOUNT  OF  CASTALY. 

BY  JOSEPH  O'CONNOB. 

Joseph  O'Connor  was  born  at  Tribes  Hill,  N.  T.,  In  1841.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  Rochester  university,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but 
never  practiced.  He  taught  for  a  while  at  the  Rochester  free  acad- 
emy, but  soon  left  this  work  for  journalism  and  became  editor  of  the 
Rochester  Post  and  Express.    His  poems  were  published  in  1895. 


I  would  the  fount  of  Castaly 
Had  never  wet  my  lips ; 

For  woe  to  him  that  hastily 
Its  sacred  water  sips. 

Apollo's  laurel  flourishes 
Above  that  stream  divine; 

Its  secret  virtue  nourishes 
The  leaves  of  love  and  wine. 


Its  joyous  tide  leaps  crystally 
Up  'neath  the  crystal  moon, 

And  falling  ever  mistily 

The  sparkling  drops  keep  tune. 

The  wavelets  circle  gleamingly, 
With  lilies  keeping  trysts; 

The  emeralds  glisten  dreamily 
Below,  and  amethysts. 


Once  taste  that  fountain's  witchery 
On  old  Parnassus'  crown, 

And  to  this  world  of  treachery 
O,  never  more  come  down ! 

Your  joy  will  be  to  think  of  it, 
'Twill  ever  haunt  your  dreams ; 

You'll  thirst  again  to  drink  of  it, 
Among  a  thousand  streams. 


142 


THE   ROSE. 

BY  PIERRE  RONSARD. 

This  poem  of  Pierre  Ronsard  (1512)  is  given  a  place  here,  as  it  Is  an 
example  of  that  theme  which  is  as  old  as  love  or  life — the  decay  of 
youth  and  beauty— a  subject  which  has  been  a  favorite  with  poets  in  all 
times.  The  motive  of  this  little  lyric  is  that  of  Waller's  "Go,  Lovely 
Rose,"  and  of  Herrlcks  "Gather  Ye  Rosebuds  While  Ye  May." 


Come,  my  Mignonne,  let  us  go — 

Let  us  see  if  yonder  rose, 

That  this  morning  did  disclose 

Robes  of  crimson  to  the  sun, 

Now  that  evening  has  begun, 
Still  with  tints  like  yours  does  glow. 

Ah,  my  Mignonne,  look  and  see — 

Look  there,  underneath  the  bough; 

Short  the  space  from  then  till  now, 

But  its  beauties  all  are  past! 

Scarce  from  morn  till  eve  they  last — 
Such  is  nature's  harsh  decree. 

Ah,  my  Mignonne,  trust  to  me; 
While  your  youth  as  yet  is  seen 
In  its  freshest,  fairest  green, 
Seize  the  moments  to  enjoy; 
Old  age  hastens  to  destroy 

Roses,  beauty,  youth,  and  thee. 


143 


FAITH. 

BY  THOMAS  CHATTEETON. 

Thomas  Chatterton  was  born  in  Bristol,  England,  Nov.  20,  1752.  He 
ended  his  life  by  taking  arsenic  in  a  lodging  room  in  London,  Aug.  24, 
1770.  He  received  a  meager  education  at  a  charity  school  in  his  native 
city,  began  to  write  verses  when  he  was  12  years  old,  and  at  15  was 
apprenticed  to  a  Bristol  attorney.  He  went  to  London  in  April,  1770. 
He  tried  to  make  a  living  by  writing  for  the  newspapers,  but  failed1, 
and,  reduced  to  extreme  destitution,  committed  suicide.  His  Rowley 
poems,  which  he  said  were  translations  from  the  writings  of  a  monk 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  have  been  the  subject  of  much  discussion. 
Besides  those  he  wrote  "The  Tragedy  of  Aella,"  "The  Battle  of  Hast- 
ings," "The  Tournament,"  and  several  shorter  poems.  His  correspond- 
ence with  Horace  Walpole  proved  a  bitter  experience  for  the  precocious 
poet,  Who  wrote  some  savage  lines  on  that  nobleman  author. 

O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys, 

To  thee,  my  only  rock,  I  fly, 
Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 
Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill ; 

But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 

Oh,  teach  me  in  the  trying  hour, 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear, 

To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power, 
Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  thee 

Encroaching  sought  a  boundless  sway, 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 
And  Mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain, 
Why  drooping  seek  the  'dark  recess? 

Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain, 
Eor  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But  ah !   my  breast  is  human  still ; 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 
My  languid  vitals'  feeble  rill, 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

144 


1 


But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigned, 
I'll  thank  the  intlicter  of  the  blow ; 

Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind, 
Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 
Which  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals, 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

.Which  God,  my  east,  my  sun,  reveals. 


1 45 


THE   SONG   OF  THE  CAMP. 

BY  BAYAED  TAYLOE. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  born  in  Pennsylvania  in  1825.  He  was  connected 
with  the  New  York  Tribune  1849-'50.  Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in  travel. 
In  1853  he  joined  Perry's  expedition  to  Japan.  He  corresponded  with 
the  American  papers,  and  on  his  return  to  this  country  he  lectured. 
From  1862-'63  he  lived  at  St.  Petersburg  as  Secretary  of  the  Legation 
there.  He  died  in  Berlin,  where  he  was  United  States  Minister,  in 
1878.  He  has  written  of  his  travels,  has  translated  Goethe's  "Faust," 
and  was  besides  a  poet  and  novelist. 

"Give  us  a  song!"   the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay  grim  and  threatening  under; 
And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belch'd  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said: 

"We  storm  the  forts  tomorrow; 
Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 

Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon ; 
Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love  and  not  of  fame; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory; 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 


146 


Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong — 
Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learn'd 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rain'd  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

"With  scream  of  shot  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars! 


An  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory; 

An  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !   still  in  honor'd  reslj 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing; 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


^T^~ 


147 


UPHILL. 

BY  CHKISTINA  GEOKGINA  ROSSETTI. 

Christina  Rossetti  was  born  at  London  in  1828.  She  came  of  that 
versatile  family,  in  which  the  father  and  sons  as  well  as  the  daughter 
were  writers,  artists,  critics  and  poets.  While  still  in  her  teens,  Miss 
Rossetti  published  a  little  volume  called  "Maud,  Prose  and  Verse," 
and  crude  and  morbid  as  the  work  was*  it  gave  promise  of  better  things. 
She  wrote  later,  "Goblin  Market"  (which  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  illus- 
trated), "A  Pageant  and  Other  Poems,"  and  several  religious  studies. 
She  died  in  1894. 

Does  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 


[48 


But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow,  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


DOUGLAS,  DOUGLAS,  TENDER  AND  TRUE. 

BY  MISS  MULOCK. 

Mrs.  Craik,  better  known  as  Dinah  Maria  Mulock,  was  born  at 
Stoke-Upon-Trent,  England,  1828,  and  died  at  Shortlands,  Kent,  October 
12,  1SS7.  She  was  the  author  of  many  popular  novels.  She  published 
a  volume  of  poems  in  1S59,  and  "Thirty  Years'  Poems"  in  1881,  besides 
many  children's  books,  fairy  tales,  etc.  She  married  George  Lillie  Craik, 
Jr.,  in  1865. 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  d 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


i.p 


O,  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few; 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now,  up  in  heaven  ? 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true? 

I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas, 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you; 
Now,  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows — 

I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas. 

Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew, 
As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


BfiQ 


TEARS,   IDLE   TEARS. 

BY  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

This   song  Is   found   In   the   "Princess."       It   was  sung  on   the   mem- 
orable occasion  when  the  three  disguised  youths  are  discovered. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  d,awns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 

To  dying  ears  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;   deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O,  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


151 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

BY  KOBEET  BUBNS. 
Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom! 
152 


The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder; 
But  O!    fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipped  my  flower  sae  early  1 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary. 

O  pale,  pale  now  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly] 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


THE   LAMB. 

BY  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

In  speaking  of  William  Blake's  "Songs  of  Innocence."  Swinburne 
says:  "These  poems  are  really  unequaled  of  their  kind.  Such  verso 
was  never  written  for  children  since  verse  writing  began. 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 


153 


Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 
Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee ; 
Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee : 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  he  calls  himself  a  lamb. 
He  is  meek  and  he  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  his  name. 
Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee ! 
Little  lamb,  God  bless  theel 


*54 


PSALM   XXIV. 

The  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof ; 

The  world  and  they  that  dwell  therein. 

For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas, 

And  established  it  upon  the  floods. 

Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord  ? 

Or  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place? 

He  that  hath  clean  hands, 

And  a  pure  heart; 

Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity, 

Nor  sworn  deceitfully. 

He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  Lord, 

And  righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation,, 

This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  him, 

That  seek  thy  face,  O  Jacob. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates ; 

And  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ;  and  the  King  of  glory 

shall  come  in. 
Who  is  this  King  of  glory  ? 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty,  the  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 
Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates ; 
Even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ;  and  the  King  of  glory 

shall  come  in. 
Who  is  this  King  of  glory? 
The  Lord  of  hosts,  he  is  the  King  of  glory. 


155 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

BY  MATTHEW  AENOLD. 


Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of 

asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to 

be, 
At  the  vessel's  prow  I  stand, 

which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the 

starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 
O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I 

send; 
"Ye,  who  from  my  childhood  up 

have  claimed  me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the 

end! 

"Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye 

stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm 

renew ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon 

you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like 

you!" 


From  the  intense,  clear,  star  sown  vault  of  heaven, 
O'er  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night  air  came  the  answer — 
" Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?    Live  as  they. 


156 


"L  naffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon  silver'd  roll ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O,  air  born  voice !  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear — 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;   and  know  that  he 
Who  finds  himself  loses  his  misery !" 


f 


\j&<  ■'■  ■ 


H7 


THE  ARSENAL  AT   SPRINGFIELD. 

BY  HENBY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Mr.  Longfellow  and  his  second  wife,  during-  their  honeymoon,  visited 
the  United  States  arsenal  at  Springfield,  Mass.,  about  half  a  century 
ago.  The  figure  of  speech  in  which  the  poet  speaks  of  the  burnished 
arms  rising  like  a  huge  organ  was  suggested  by  Mrs.  Longfellow.  The 
poem  was  inspired  by  Charles  Sumner's  oration,  "The  True  Grandeur 
of  Nations,"  which  was  an  argument  for  peace  and  against  war. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah,  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death  angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 


I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle  bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war  drums  made  of  serpent's  skin. 

IS8 


The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonics? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts. 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred 
And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter,  and  then  cease; 

And,  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say  "Peace!" 

Peace!    And  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  war's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


'59 


ALL. 

BY  FRANCIS  A.  DURIVAGE. 

Francis  A.  Durivage  was  born  at  Boston  in  1814  and  engaged  early 
in  journalistic  work,  writing  for  the  magazines  as  well.  He  won  consid- 
erable reputation  with  a  series  of  humorous  articles  signed  "Old  Un." 
He  wrote  a  great  many  poems  of  serious  as  well  as  of  light  character, 
and  several  plays.  He  published  "Cyclopedia  of  Biography,"  "The  Fatal 
Casket,"  "Life  Scenes  from  the  World  Around  Us,"  was  part  translator 
of  Lamartine's  "History  of  the  Revolution  of  1848,"  and  co-author  of 
"Stray  Subjects."     He  died  in  New  York  city  in  1881. 

["I   know   of  no   finer  poem   of  its   length."— Bayard   Taylor.] 


There  hangs  a  saber,  and  there  a  rein, 
With  a  rusty  buckle  and  green  curb  chain ; 
A  pair  of  spurs  on  the  old  gray  wall, 
And  a  mouldy  saddle — well,  that  is  all. 

Come  out  to  the  stable — it  is  not  far; 
The  moss  grown  door  is  hanging  ajar. 
Look  within !    There's  an  empty  stall, 
Where  once  stood  a  charger,  and  that  is  all. 

The  good  black  horse  came  riderless  home, 
[Flecked  with  blood  drops  as  well  as  foam ; 
ISee  yonder  hillock  where  dead  leaves  fall; 
The  good  black  horse  pined  to  jieath — ' 
that's  all. 

All  ?    O,  God !  it  is  all  I  can  speak. 
Question  me  not — I  am  old  and  weak ; 
His  saber  and  his  saddle  hang  on  the  wall, 
And  his  horse  pined  to  death — I  have  told 
you  all. 


160 


LIFE. 

BY  MRS.  A.  L.  BARBAULD. 

Anna  Letltia  Barbauld,  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Aiken,  was 
born  at  Kllworth-Harcourt,  in  Leicestershire,  1743.  She  married  the  Kev. 
Rochemond  Barbauld.  A  poet  as  well  as  an  essayist,  she  wrote 
"Poems,"  "Hymns  in  Prose  for  Children,"  "The  Female  Spectator,"  and 
"Eighteen  Hundred  and  Eleven."     She  died  at  Stoke-Newington  in  1825. 


Life!    I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life!    we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloucly1 

weather ; 
"lis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are^ 

dear — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning^) 
Choose  thine  own  time ; 
Say  not  "Good  night,"  but  in  some 

brighter  clime 
Bid  me  "Good  morning.". 


i6r 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


I  wandered,  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay ; 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  jocund  company! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  to  me  the  show  had  brought; 


For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


162 


SONG   ON   MAY   MORNING. 

BY  JOHN  MILTON. 

John  Milton  was  born  at  London  in  160S.  At  1G  he  went  to  Christ's 
College,  Cambridge,  and  there  wrote  his  "Ode  on  the  Nativity"  (1G29). 
During  the  Long  Parliament  Milton  wrote  many  political  pamphlets 
attacking  the  Episcopacy,  and  later,  when  Charles  I.  had  been  executed, 
he  answered  the  "Eikon  Basillke"  of  Gauden  with  his  famous  "Eikon- 
oclastes."  At  home  Milton  suffered  through  the  neglect  and  impatience 
of  his  daughters,  who,  on  account  of  his  blindness,  were  the  unwilling 
amanuenses,  of  "Paradise  Lost,"  and  "Paradise  Regained."  Besides 
these  epic  poems  are  "L' Allegro,"  "II  Penseroso,"  "Comus,"  and  "Lyci- 
das,"  all  of  which  were  written  between  1G34-37.    He  died  in  1674. 


%*fix-*. 


JM7 


1 


Now  the  bright  morning  star, 

clay's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East, 

and  leads  with  her 
The   flowery   May,   who    from 

her    green    lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale 

primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  doth 

inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire; 
Woods  and  groves  arc  of  thy 

dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy 

blessing; 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early 

song, 
And  welcome  Ihec,  and  wish  thee 

long. 


ir,3 


GROUNDS   OF   THE   TERRIBLE. 

BY  HAKOLD  BEGBIE. 

The  death  is  announced  of  First  Class  Petty  Officer  Grounds  of  H.  M. 
S.  Terrible,  the  best  shot  with  a  heavy  gun  in  the  British  navy.  Grounds' 
wages  were  3  shillings  per  day,  and  for  the  unparalleled  achievement  of 
making  eight  shots  in  one  minute  in  1901  with  the  six-inch  gun,  and 
seven  hits  out  of  eight  rounds  in  one  minute  under  most  unfavorable 
weather  conditions  in  1902,  he  received  in  all  the  magnificent  remunera- 
tion of  1  shilling  9  pence,  and  6  shillings  3  pence  in  the  two  years,  "his 
proper  share  of  prize  money." 

The  statesman  at  the  council,  and  the  gunner  at  the  breech: 
The  hand  upon  the  parchment  and  the  eye  along  the  sight: 

O,  the  cry  is  on  the  waters:    Have  ye  weighed  the  worth  of 
each? 
Have  ye  shown  a  mandate  stronger  than  ability  to  smite? 

He  was  the  best  with  a  heavy  gun  in  the  whole  o'  the  British 

fleet, 
And  the  run  of  his  pay?    Three  shillin's  a  day,  with  biscuit 

and  salted  meat. 
He  was  the  man  who  could  pitch  his  shell  on  a  mark  that  was 

never  still 
Eight  times  true  while  a  minute  flew,  and  parliament  whittled 

the  bill ; 
He  was  a  man  who  could  soothe  a  gun  in  the  race  of  a  swiriing 

tide, 
Who  could  chime  his  shots  with  the  charging  knots  of  a  ship 

with  a  dripping  side, 
Who  could  get  to  his  mark  from  a  dancing  deck  that  never  a 

moment  stood, 
Content  to  hear,  for  a  Bisley  cheer,  a  midshipman's  muttered 

"Good!" 

Never  his  eye  will  steady  now  thro'  the  spray  and  the  whistling 

rain, 
To  loose  the  scream  from  the  foaming  lips  and  splinter  the 

mark  in  twain ; 
Never  again  will  he  win  his  share  in  the  prize  that  my  lords 

assign — 
Six-and-three  in   a   single  year,  and   once — it   was   one-and- 

nine! 

164 


Never  again !    He  has  fired  the  last  of  the  shells  that  the  state 

allowed, 
He  has  turned  from  the  roar  of  the  six-inch  bore  to  the  hush 

of  the  hammock  shroud, 
And  never  a  bell  in  England  tolled,  and  who  was  it  caught  his 

breath 
When  the  Shot  o'  the  Fleet  first  dipped  his  feet  in  the  flooding 

ford  of  Death  ? 

Gladder,  I  think,  would  the  gunner's  soul  have  passed  thro'  the 

closing  dark 
Had  he  known  that  ye  cared  with  patriot  joy  when  the  navy 

hit  the  mark  ; 
Gladder,  I  think,  would  the  gunner's  soul  have  passed  to  the 

farther  shore 
Had  the  Mother  Land  once  gripped  his  hand,  and  uttered  the 

pride  she  bore. 
Geld  is  the  prize  that  all  men  seek,  tho'  the  mark  be  honor  and 

fame; 
Declare :     Have  ye  spurned  by  a  gift  or  a  word  the  Terrible 

gunners'  aim  ? 
Will  ye  care  to  know  what  the  men  can  do  when  the  hosts  of 

hate  embark? 
What  of  your  sons  at  the  old  sea  guns? — have  ye  cared  if  they 

hit  the  mark  ? 


3*iL; 


1 65 


IN   THE  GRAVEYARD. 

BY  MACDONALD  CLAKKE. 

Macdonald  Clarke  was  born  at  New  London,  Conn.,  in  1798.  On  ac- 
count of  his  many  eccentricities  he  gained  the  name  of  the  "Mad  Poet." 
His  poems  have  been  collected  under  the  titles  of  "A  Review  of  the  Eve 
of  Eternity  and  Other  Poems,"  "The  Elixir  of  Moonshine,  by  the  Mad 
Poet,"  "The  Gossip,"  "Poetic  Sketches,"  and  "The  Belles  of  Broadway." 
He  died  in  1842. 


'Mid  the  half-lit  air,  and  the  lonely  place, 

Rose  the  buried  Pleasures  of  perish'd  years. 
I  saw  the  Past,  with  her  pallid  face, 

Whose  smiles  had  turned  to  tears. 
On  many  a  burial  stone, 
I  read  the  names  of  beings  once  known, 

Who  oft  in  childish  glee, 

Plad  jumped  across  the  graves  with  me — 
Sported,  many  a  truant  day, 
Where — now  their  ashes  lay. 

There  the  dead  Poet  had  been  placed, 
Who  died  in  the  dawn  of  thought — 

And  there,  the  girl  whose  virtues  graced 
The  lines  his  love  had  wrought — 

Beauty's  power,  and  Talent's  pride, 
And  Passion's  fever,  early  chill'd 
The  heart  that  felt,  the  eye  that  thrill'd, 

All,  the  dazzling  dreams  of  each, 

Faded,  out  of  Rapture's  reach. 

O,  when  they  trifled,  on  this  spot, 

Not  long  ago, 
Little  they  thought,  'twould  be  their  lot, 

So  soon  to  lie  here  lone  and  low, 
'Neath  a  chilly  coverlid  of  clay, 

And  few  or  none  to  go 
'Mid  the  glimmering  dusk  of  a  summer  day, 
To  the  dim  place  where  they  lay, 


166 


And  pause  and  pray, 

And  think  how  little  worth, 

Is  all  that  frets  our  hearts  on  earth. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  and  the  summer  skies 

Were  dotted  with  specks  of  light, 
That  melted  soon,  in  the  deep  moon-rise, 

That  flowed  over  Croton  Height. 
For  the  Evening,  in  her  robe  of  white, 

Smiled  o'er  sea  and  land,  with  pensive  eyes, 
Saddening  the  heart,  like  the  first  fair  night, 

After  a  loved  one  dies. 


BONNY   DUNDEE. 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 
To  the  lords  of  convention  'twas  Claver'se  who  spoke, 
"Ere  the  king's  crown  shall  fall  there  arc  crowns  to  be  broke; 
So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up  your  men ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  lionny  Dundee." 


167 


Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat ; 
But  the  provost,  douce  man,  said,  "Just  e'en  let  him  be, 
The  gude  town  is  weel  quit  of  the  deil  of  Dundee." 

With  sour  featured  whigs  the  Grassmarket  was  crammed, 
As  if  half  the  west  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged ; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  ee, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  anci  had  spears, 
And  lang  hafted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers ; 
And  they  shrunk  to  close  heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free, 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox ; 
And  tremble,  false  whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee; 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnets  and  me." 


168 


BORDER   BALLAD. 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  border. 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Eight  for  the  queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding, 

War  steeds  are  bounding ; 
Stand  to  your  arms,  then,  and  march  in  good  order, 

England  shall  many  a  day 

Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 


169 


TO   THE  DANDELION. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

This  poem,  like  Bryant's  "Waterfowl,"  like  many  of  Longfellow's, 
speaks  of  the  objects  of  nature  in  a  reflective,  almost  religious  tone, 
portraying  the  love  of  our  American  poets  for  "these  living  pages  of 
God's  book." 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st 

beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with 

harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full 

of  pride,  uphold, 
High  hearted  buccaneers, 

o'er  joyed  that  they 
An  El  Dorado  in  the  grass  have 

found, 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample 

round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art 

more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer 

blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the 
Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of 
Indian  seas, 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age  to  rob  the  lover's  heart 
of  ease; 
Tis  the  spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye, 


170 


Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 

To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime; 
The  eyes  thou  givest 

Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time. 
Not  in  mid-June  the  gold  cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summerlike  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 

When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 

More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 

Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe. 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look, 

On  all  these  pages  of  God's  book. 


171 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOAT. 

BY  RICHARD  GARNETT. 

This  poem  has  passed  in  American  books  of  selections  as  having  been 
•written  by  an  unknown  "R.  Garrett,"  this  being  mainly  the  consequence 
of  an  error  in  editing  the  little  book  called  "Sea  and  Shore,"  some 
twenty  years  ago.  It  now,  however,  appears  as  the  work  of  a  man  dear 
to  many  Americans,  Dr.  Richard  Garnett,  late  of  the  British  museum. 

The  stream  was  smooth  as  glass.     We  said :    "Arise,  and  let's 

away." 
The  Siren  sang  beside  the  boat  that  in  the  rushes  lay, 
And  spread  the  sail  and  strong  the  oar,  we  gayly  took  our  way. 
When  shall  the  sandy  bar  be  crost?     When  shall  we  find  the 

bay? 

The  broadening  flood   swells   slowly   out   o'er  cattle   dotted 

plains ; 
The  stream  is  strong  and  turbulent,  and  dark  with  heavy  rains ; 
The  laborer  looks  up  to  see  our  shallop  speed  away. 
When  shall  the  sandy  bar  be  crost?    When  shall  we  find  the 

bay? 

Now  are  the  clouds  like  fiery  shrouds ;  the  sun,  superbly  large, 

Slow  as  an  oak  to  woodman's  stroke,  sinks  flaming  at  their 

marge ; 
The  waves  are  bright  with  mirror'd  light  as  jacinths  on  our 

way. 

When  shall  the  sandy  bar  be  crost?    When  shall  we  find  the 

bay? 


172 


t 


The  moon  is  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  now  no  more  we  see 
The  spreading  river's  either  bank,  and  surging  distantly 
There  booms  a  sudden  thunder  as  of  breakers  far  away ; 
Now  shall  the  sandy  bar  be  crost,  now  shall  we  find  the  bay ! 

The  seagull  shrieks  high  overhead,  and  dimly  to  our  sight 
The  moonlit  crests  of  foaming  waves  gleam  towering  through 

the  night. 
We'll  steal  upon  the  mermaid  soon,  and  start  her  from  her  lay, 
When  once  the  sandy  bar  is  crost  and  we  are  in  the  bay. 

What  rises  white  and  awful  as  a  shroud  enfolded  ghost? 
What  roar  of  rampant  tumult  bursts  in  clangor  on  the  coast? 
Pull  back !  pull  back !  The  raging  flood  sweeps  every  oar  away. 
O  stream,  is  this  thy  bar  of  sand  ?     O  boat,  is  this  the  bay  ? 


'73 


NEARER   HOME. 

BY  PHOEBE  CAKY. 

Phoebe  Cary,   sister  of  Alice  Cary, 


in  Hamilton  County, 
I.,  July  31,  1871.    Her 


was  born 
near  Cincinnati,  Sept.  24,  1824;  died  in  Newport,  R. 
educational  advantages  were  superior  to  those  of  Alice,  whose  constant 
companion  she  was  through  life.  "Nearer  Home"  was  written  when  she 
was  18  years  old.  Intense  sorrow  for  her  sister,  whom  she  survived, 
doubtless  hastened  her  death. 


One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 

I'm  nearer  my  home  today 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before ; 


Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea ; 

174 


Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown ! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  us  at  length  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm ; 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

O,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  today  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith ! 


175 


THE   TIGER. 

BY  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

William  Blake  was  born  at  London  in  1757;  he  died  there  in  1827.  He 
is  well  known  among  children  for  his  "Songs  of  Innocence."  Other  of 
his  works  are:  "Book  of  Thel,"  the  "Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Earth," 
"Gates  of  Paradise,"  "Songs  of  Experience."  He  was  also  a  painter 
and  an  engraver,  and  among  his  best  work  in  that  line  are  his  illustra- 
tions to  Blair's  "Grave,"  and  to  the  book  of  Job. 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

176 


And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?    What  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?     What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did  he  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


177 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

BY  EDGAE  ALLAN  POE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
So  that  her  high  born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes!  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


i78 


But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night  tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


TODAY. 

BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE, 


rt> 


■i 


So  here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue 

day  ; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless  away? 

(  Nit  of  eternity  this  new  day  is  born; 
Into  eternity  at  night  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime  no  eye  ever  did ; 
So  soon  it  forever  from  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless  away? 

179 


MY  BOAT   IS  ON   THE  SHORE 

BY  LORD  BYRON. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 

But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate! 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 
The  libation  I  would  pour 

Should  be — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 
And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore! 


-»3-  — .gj 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

BY  JOHN  GKEENLEAP  WHITT1ER. 

From  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild,  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  summer  fades  too  soon; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 

In  its  pale  fire 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance! 


181 


SCOTS  WHA   HAE. 

BY  BOBERT  BUBNS. 

A  friend  of  Burns  states  this  stirring 
poem  was  written  during  a  frightful  storm 
in  the  wilds  of  Glenken,  in  Galloway.  It 
was  written  in  September,  1793. 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victorie ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r- 
Chains  and  slaverie! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me! 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! 
Let  us  do  or  die  1 


182 


JERUSALEM,  THE  GOLDEN. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  LATIN,  BY  JOHN  M.  NEALE.'N 


Jerusalem,  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest! 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed ; 
I  know  not,  Oh,  I  know  not, 

What  joys  await  me  there, 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  bliss  beyond  compare. 

They  stand,  those  halls  of  Zion, 

All  jubilant  with  song, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 

And  all  the  martyr  throng; 
The  Prince  is  ever  in  them, 

The  daylight  is  serene ; 
The  pastures  of  the  blessed 

Are  decked  in  glorious  sheen. 

There  is  the  throne  of  David ; 

And  there,  from  care  released. 
The  shout  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  song  of  them  that  feast : 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquered  in  the  fight 
Forever  and  forever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white. 


'83 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 

BY  EOBEKT  BKOWNING. 

This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 

Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 

Was  the  poor  spray's  which  the  flying  feet  hung 

to  — 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in  and  sung  to! 


This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 

Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went 

on — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on  1 


184 


JOHN   ANDERSON,   MY   JO. 

BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 
John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonny  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


[85 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

BY  LOED  BYRON. 

Zoe  mou  sas  agapo. 
(My  life,  I  love  thee.) 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now  and  take  the  rest  1 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zoe  mou  sas  agapo. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  iEgean  wind ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zoe  mou  sas  agapo. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zoe  mou  sas  agapo. 

Maid  of  Athens !  I  am  gone : 
Think  of  me,  sweet!  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No ! 
Zoe  mou  sas  agapo. 


1 86 


TO   CELIA. 

BEN  JONSON. 

Ben  Jonson  was  born  about  the  year  1573,  at  Westminster.  Little 
Is  known  about  his  early  life,  but  In  1597  he  Is  found  playing  and  writing 
for  "The  Admiral's  Men,"  and  later  for  the  "Lord  Chamberlain's  Ser- 
vants." Afterwards  he  stood  in  great  favor  at  court,  and  wrote  many 
of  his  best  plays  during  that  time— the  "Alchemist,"  "Catiline."  "Bar- 
tholomew Fair,"  and  "Eplcoene."  He  died  In  1637,  after  several  years 
of  Illness,  which  affected  his  wit  and  brilliancy  in  such  a  manner  that 
many  of  his  later  plays  were  not  heard  to  the  end.  He  is  buried  In 
Westminster  Abbey.  He  also  wrote  some  prose  and  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  lyrics  of  the  English  language. 


Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul 
doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be ; 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only 
breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells, 
I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee. 


1 


187 


A   LOVER'S  QUARREL 

BY  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

NELLIE. 
If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  at  the  play,  sir, 

Beckon  and  nod,  a  melodrama  through, 
I  would  not  turn  abstractedly  away,  sir, 

If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 
If  I  were  you,  when  persons  I  affected, 

Wait  for  three  hours  to  take  me  down  to  Kew, 
I  would,  at  least,  pretend  I  recollected, 

If  I  were  you ! 


188 


NELLIE. 
If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  are  so  lavish, 

Sir,  as  to  keep  me  every  waltz  but  two, 
I  would  not  dance  with  odious  Miss  McTavish, 

If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 

If  I  were  you,  who  vow  you  cannot  suffer 

Whiff  of  the  best — the  mildest  "honey-dew," 

I  would  not  dance  with  smoke-consuming  Puffer, 
If  I  were  you ! 


NELLIE. 
If  I  were  you,  I  would  not,  sir,  be  bitter, 
Even  to  write  the  "Cynical  Review' - 


FRANK. 
No,  I  should  doubtless  find  flirtation  fitter, 
If  I  were  you ! 

NELLIE. 
Really  !    You  would  ?    Why,  Frank,  you're  quite  delightful' 

Hot  as  Othello,  and  as  black  of  hue; 
Borrow  my  fan.    I  would  not  look  so  frightful, 

If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 

"It  is  the  cause."    I  mean  your  chaperon  is 

Bringing  some  well-curled  juvenile.     Adieu! 

I  shall  retire.  I'd  spare  that  poor  Adonis, 
If  I  were  you! 

NELLIE. 
Go,  if  you  will.    At  once!   And  by  express,  sir! 

Where  shall  it  be?  to  China — or  Peru? 
Go.     I  should  leave  inquirers  my  address,  sir, 

If  I  were  you  ! 

189 


FRANK. 
No — I  remain.    To  stay  and  fight  a  duel 

Seems  on  the  whole,  the  proper  thing  to  do — 
Ah,  you  are  strong — I  would  not  then  be  cruel, 

If  I  were  you ! 

NELLIE. 
One  does  not  like  one's  feelings  to  be  doubted — 

FRANK. 
One  does  not  like  one's  friends  to  misconstrue- 

NELLIE. 
If  I  confess  that  I  a  wee-bit  pouted? 

FRANK. 
I  should  admit  that  I  was  piqued,  too. 

NELLIE. 
Ask  me  to  dance !    I'd  say  no  more  about  it, 
If  I  were  you ! 

(  Waltz — Exeunt. ) 


KUBLA  KHAN 

BY  SAMUEL  T.  COLEEIDGE. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  Devonshire 
1772.  He  studied  at  Cambridge,  but  left  without  taking  his  degree.  In 
1795  he  married  Sara  Fricker,  Southey's  sister-in-law;  in  the  same  year 
he  moved  to  Bristol.  Here  he  published,  in  collaboration  with  Words- 
worth, the  "Liyrical  Ballads."  In  1798  he  went  to  Germany  on  an  annuity 
from  the  Wedgewood  brothers,  but  he  soon  returned  to  England  and 
lived  at  Keswick.  Later  he  went  to  London,  where  he  lived  at  the 
house  of  Dr.  Gilman  and  lectured  on  Shakespeare  and  the  fine  arts. 
He  died  at  London  in  1834. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure  dome  decree, 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran, 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 


190 


.With  walls  and  towers  were 

girdled  round ; 
And  there  were  gardens  bright 
with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an 
incense  bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as 
the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of 
greenery. 
The  shadow  of  the  dome  of 
pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the 
waves, 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled 
measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the 
caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure  dome  with 
caves  of  ice! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw ; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song 
To  such  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 

That  with  music  loud  and  long 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air — 

That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry.  Beware  I  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey  dew  hath  fed 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


TOT 


A  BALLAD  UPON   A  WEDDING. 

BY  SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 


Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on,  which  thev  did  bring, 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck; 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must), 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  f ear'p!  the  light ; 
But  oh,  she  dances  such  a  wayl 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison, 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone), 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Catherine  pear 

(The  side  that's  next  the  sun) . 


Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly)  ; 
But  (Dick)  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 


192 


CROSSING   THE   BAR 

BY  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Sunset  and  evening  star 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
.When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  1 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 


'93 


JUNE. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays ; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 

We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 

194 


And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world  and  she  to  her  nest — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  nature,  which  song  is  the  best? 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 


The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives, 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


195 


THE  BELLS   OF  SHANDON. 

BY  FKANCIS  MAHONY. 

Francis  Sylvester  Mahony,  better  known  as  Father  Prout,  was  born 
In  Cork  in  1804.  Though  he  was  a  Jesuit  priest,  he  was  more  of  a 
literatus  than  a  man  of  God.  He  is  the  author  of  the  famous  "Rellquea 
of  Father  Prout,"  which  he  wrote  for  Frazer's  Magazine.  Later  he  was 
the  Rome  correspondent  for  the  Daily  News  and  the  Paris  correspondent 
of  the  Globe.  He  died  in  Paris  in  1866.  Among  his  poems  the  following 
is  the  only  one  worth  mention: 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 

I  often  think  of  those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would  in  the  days  of  childhood 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder,  where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 
«  196 


I  have  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine; 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 
But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  memory  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  tolling  "old  Adrian's  mole"  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious, 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 
O !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  kiosko 

In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  'em, 
But  there's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me ; 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 


197 


THE  GARRET. 

BY  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

The  many  theater-goers  who  were  pleased  with  Mr.  Esmond's  comedy, 
"When  We  Were  Twenty-One,"  as  played  by  the  Goodwins,  may  like 
to  see  the  Thackeray  song  from  which  the  play  took  its  name.  It  Is  an 
Imitation  of  a  poem  by  Beranger. 


With  pensive  eyes  the  little  room 
I  view, 
Where  in  my  youth  I 

weathered  it  so  long, 
With  a  wild  mistress,  a  stanch 
friend  or  two, 
And  a  light  heart  still 

breaking  into  song; 
Making  a  mock  of  life  and  all  its 
cares, 
Rich  in  the  glory  of  my  rising 
sun, 
Lightly  I  vaulted  up  four  pair 
of  stairs, 
In  the  brave  days  when  I  was 
twenty-one. 

Yes,  'tis  a  garret,  let  him  know't 
who  will ; 
There  was  my  bed — full  hard 
it  was  and  small ; 
My  table  there — and  I  decipher 
still 
Half  a  lame  couplet 

charcoaled  on  the  wall. 


Ye  joys  that  Time  hath  swept  with  him  away, 

Come  to  mine  eyes,  ye  dreams  of  love  and  fun 

For  you  I  pawned  my  watch  how  many  a  day, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 
****** 


198 


One  jolly  evening,  when  my  friends  and  I 

Made  happy  music  with  our  songs  and  cheers, 
A  shout  of  triumph  mounted  up  thus  high, 

And  distant  cannon  opened  on  our  ears ; 
We  rise — we  join  in  the  triumphant  strain — 

Napoleon  conquers — Austerlitz  is  won — 
Tyrants  shall  never  tread  us  down  again. 

In  the  brave  days  when  1  was  twenty-one. 


Let  us  begone? — the  place  is  sad  and  strange; 

How  far,  far  off  those  happy  times  appear ; 
All  that  I  have  to  live  I'd  gladly  change 

For  one  such  month  as  I  have  wasted  here — 
To  draw  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power 

From  founts  of  hope  that  never  will  return, 
And  drink  all  life's  quintessence  in  an  hour — 

Give  me  the  days  when  I  was  twenty-one  1 

ON  A   GIRDLE. 

BY  EDMUND  WALLER. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  hath  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer : 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair: 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 


tz: 


>--^ 


199 


SOLILOQUY   FROM   MACBETH. 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

Tomorrow,  and  tomorrow,  and  tomorrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  dax 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time, 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more;   it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

THE  DAY   IS  DONE. 

BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 


200 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who  through  long  days  of  labor 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

20 1 


LITTLE  BREECHES. 

BY  JOHN  HAY. 
I  don't  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show ; 
But  I've  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o'  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets, 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  thing— 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  come  along — 
No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Could  beat  him  for  pretty  and  strong, 
Peart,  and  chippy,  and  sassy, 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight — 
And  I'd  larnt  him  to  chaw  terbacker 

Jest  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket 

As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store; 
I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses 

And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 
They  scared  at  something  and  started — 

I  heard  one  little  squall 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches  and  all. 

Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie! 
I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer; 

202 


But  we  rousted  up  some  torches 
And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near. 

At  last  we  struck  hosses  and  wagon 
Snowed  under  a  soft,  white  mound, 

Upsot,  dead  beat — but  of  little  Gabe 
No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me, 

Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid — 
I  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 

Crotch  deep  in  the  snow  and  prayed. 

******** 

By  this,  the  torches  was  played  out, 

And  me  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  off  for  some  wood  to  a  sheepfold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  thar. 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night. 
We  looked  in  and  seen  them  huddled  thar, 

So  warm,  and  sleepy,  and  white, 
And  thar  sot  Little  Breeches  and  chirped, 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
"I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker, 

And  that's  what  the  matter  of  me." 

How  did  he  git  thar?   Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm ; 
They  jest  stooped  down  and  toted  him 
To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 
And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child, 

And  fotching  him  to  his  own, 
Is  a  durned  sight  better  business 
Than  loafing  around  the  Throne. 


203 


FLYNN   OF  VIRGINIA. 

BY  BEET  HABTE. 

Didn't  know  Flynn — 
Flynn  of  Virginia — 

Long  as  he's  been  'yar? 

Look'ee  here,  stranger 
Whar  hev  you  been  ? 

Here  in  this  tunnel 

He  was  my  pardner, 

That  same  Tom  Flynn — 
Working  together, 
In  wind  and  weather, 

Day  out  and  in. 

Didn't  know  Flynn ! 

Well,  that  is  queer. 
Why,  it's  a  sin,  , 

To  think  of  Tom  Flynn— 

Tom,  with  his  cheer; 

Tom,  without  fear — 
Stranger,  look  'yar! 

Thar  in  the  drift, 

Back  to  the  wall, 
He  held  the  timbers 

Ready  to  fall; 
Then  in  the  darkness 

I  heard  him  call : 
"Run  for  your  life,  Jake ! 
Run  for  your  wife's  sake ! 

204 


Don't  wait  for  me." 

And  that  was  all 

Heard  in  the  din, 
Heard  of  Tom  Flynn- 

Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That  lets  me  out 

Here  in  the  damp- 
Out  of  the  sun — 

That  'ar  derned  lamp 
Makes  my  eyes  run. 
Well,  there — I'm  done. 

But,  sir,  when  you'll 

Hear  the  next  fool 

Asking  of  Flynn — 

Flynn  of  Virginia — 
Just  you  chip  in, 
Say  you  knew  Flynn ; 

Say  that  you've  been  'yar. 


2°.t> 


WARBLE  FOR  LILAC-TIME. 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN. 

Warble  me  now  for  joy  of  lilac-time, 

Sort  me,  O  tongue  and  lips  for  nature's  sake,  souvenirs  of 
earliest  summer, 

Gather  the  welcome  signs  (as  children  with  pebbles  of  string- 
ing shells), 

Put  in  April  and  May,  the  hylas  croaking  in  the  ponds,  the 
elastic  air, 

Bees,  butterflies,  the  sparrow  with  its  simple  notes, 

Bluebird  and  darting  swallow,  nor  forget  the  high-hole  flash- 
ing his  golden  wings, 

The  tranquil  sunny  haze,  the  clinging  smoke,  the  vapor, 

Shimmer  of  waters  with  fish  in  them,  the  cerulean  above. 

All  that  is  jocund  and  sparkling,  the  brooks  running, 

The  maple  woods,  the  crisp  February  days  and  the  sugar 
making, 

The  robin  where  he  hops,  bright-eyed,  brown-breasted, 

With  musical  clear  call  at  sunrise  and  again  at  sunset. 

Or  flitting  among  the  trees  of  the  apple  orchard,  building  the 
nest  of  his  mate, 

The  melted  snow  of  March,  the  willow  sending  forth  its  yel- 
low-green sprouts, 

For  springtime  is  here !  The  summer  is  here,  and  what  is  this 
in  it  and  from  it? 

Thou,  soul,  unloosen'd — the  restlessness  after  I  know  not  what ; 

Come,  let  us  lag  here  no  longer,  let  us  be  up  and  away ! 

O,  if  one  could  fly  like  a  bird ! 

O,  to  escape,  to  sail  forth  as  in  a  ship ! 


206 


To  glide  with  thee,  O  soul,  o'er  all,  in  all,  as  a  ship  o'er  the 

waters ; 
Gathering  these  hints,  the  preludes,  the  blue  sky,  the  grass,  the 

morning  drops  of  dew, 
The  lilac-scent,  the  bushes  with  dark  green  heart-shaped  leaves, 
Wood  violets,  the  little  delicate  pale  blossoms  called  innocent 
Samples  and   sorts  not   for  themselves  alone,   but   for  their 

atmosphere 
To  grace  the  bush  I  love — to  sing  with  the  birds, 
A  warble  for  joy  of  lilac-time. 


PORTIA'S   SPEECH   ON   MERCY. 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 


The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd, 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath.    It  is  twice  blest : 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes. 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest :  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway; 

It  is  enthroned,  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 

When  mercy  seasons  justice. 


207 


THE   PARADOX  OF  TIME. 

BY  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

Time  goes,  you  say  ?    Ah,  no ! 
Alas !     Time  stays,  we  go ; 

Or  else,  were  this  not  so, 
What  need  to  chain  the  hours, 
For  youth  were  always  ours  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say? — ah,  nol 

Ours  is  the  eyes'  deceit 
Of  men  whose  flying  feet 

Lead  through  some  landscape  low.; 
208 


We  pass,  and  think  we  see 
The  earth's  fixed  surface  flee; 
Alas !    Time  stays — we  go ! 

Once,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Your  locks  were  curling  gold, 

And  mine  had  shamed  the  crow  ; 
Now,  in  the  self-same  stage, 
We've  reached  the  silver  age ; 

Time  goes,  you  say? — ih,  no! 

Once,  when  my  voice  was  strong, 
I  filled  the  woods  with  song 

To  praise  your  "rose"  and  "snow" ; 
My  bird  that  sung  is  dead; 
Where  are  your  roses  fled  ? 

Alas!     Time  stays — we  go! 

See  in  what  traversed  ways, 
What  backward  fate  delays 

The  hopes  we  used  to  know ; 
Where  are  our  old  desires — 
Ah !  where  those  vanished  fires  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say  ? — ah,  no ! 

How  far,  how  far,  O  sweet, 
The  past  behind  our  feet 

Lies  in  the  even-glow ! 
Now,  on  the  forward  way, 
Let  us  fold  hands  and  pray ; 

Alas !     Time  stays — we  go ! 


209 


NOCTURNE. 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDBICH. 

Up  to  her  chamber  window, 

A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo  ladder 

Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 
I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 

I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 

The  curtain's  folds  between. 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover, 

She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window— 

I  see  it  where  I  stand ! 
To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 

And  kisses  him  many  a  time — 
Ah  me !     It  was  he  that  won  her 

Because  he  dared  to  climb. 


THE   SOCIETY   UPON   THE   STANISLAUS. 

BY  BBET  HABTE. 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James; 
I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games ; 
And  I'll  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow  man, 
And  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "put  a  head"  on  him. 

Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  society, 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 

210 


Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  chair  for  a  suspension  of  the  rulos 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his  lost 

mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at  fault, 
It  seems  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones'  family  vault; 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Xow  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass — at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  raised  a  point  of  order,  when — 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile  and  curled  up  on  the  floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 
In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  paleozoic  age ; 
And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was  a  sin, 
Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of  Thompson 
in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these 

improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain  and 
my  name  is  Truthful  James; 
And  I've  told  in  simple  language 
what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the 
Stanislow. 


sir 


NATHAN   HALE. 

BY  FKANCIS  MILES  FINCH. 

These  verses  were  written  by  the  author  of  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray." 
Nathan  Hale,  great-uncle  of  Edward  Everett  Hale,  was  born  at  Coven- 
try, Conn.,  June  6,  1755.  He  was  sent  to  New  York  by  Washington  to 
get  information  about  the  British,  and  was  arrested  while  on  that 
mission.  He  was  hanged  as  a  spy  by  order  of  Sir  William  Howe,  Sept. 
22,  1776.  By  his  executioner  he  was  denied  the  use  of  a  Bible,  and  his 
family  letters  were  burned. 

To  drum  beat  and  heart  beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by; 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 
Yet  to  drum  beat  and  heart  beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  the  starlight  and  moonlight, 

He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp ; 
He  hears  the  rustling  flag 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp ; 
And  the  starlight  and  the  moonlight 

His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 

He  scans  the  tented  line ; 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns, 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine ; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 

It  meets  his  eager  glance; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 

Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 

On  an  emerald  expanse. 

212 


A  sharp  clang,  a  still  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound ! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon  eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found ; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  a  calm  brow  and  a  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom ; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Xor  a  shadowy  trace  of  gloom ; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow, 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod  ; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  word  of  God! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  liberty  ; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spent  wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message  words, 
They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 

Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 
A  patriot  could  die. 

With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 
A  soldier's  battle  cry. 

From  fame  leaf  and  angel  leaf, 

Prom  monument  and  urn. 
The  sad  earth,  the  glad  <>f  heaven, 

1  lis  tragic  fate  shall  learn  ; 
And  on  fame  leaf  and  angel  leaf 

The  name  of  HALE  shall  burn! 

213 


THE  SONG  OF  CALLICLES. 

BY  MATTHEW  AKNOLD. 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame. 

All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 

Her  forest-clothed  flame. 

Not  here,  O,  Apollo, 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee, 
But  where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea. 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 

Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 

O,  speed,  and  rejoice! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff -top 

Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks; 

On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 

Soft-lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapped  in  their  blankets, 

Asleep  on  the  hills. 

What  forms  are  those  coming, 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 

What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom? 

214 


What  sweet-breathing  Presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme? 

What  voices  enrapture 

The  night's  balmy  prime? 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine — 

The  Leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollow, 
They  stream  up  again. 

What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train? 

They  bathe  in  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road. 

Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 

Whose  praise  do  they  mention  ? 

Of  what  is  it  told, 
What  will  be  forever, 

What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  ;  and  then, 

The  rest  of  Immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  Day  in  his  hotness, 

The  strife  with  the  palm ; 

The  Night  in  her  silence, 
The  Stars  in  their  calm. 


215 


SONG  FROM  "MARMION." 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  forever? 
Where  through  groves  deep  and  high, 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die, 

Under  the  willow. 

There,  through  the  summer  'day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving. 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  O,  never! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin  and  leave  her? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap, 
O'er  the  false  hearted. 
216 


His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 

E'er  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it — 

Never,  O,  never! 


THE   GRASS. 

BY  EMILY  DICKENSON. 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do — 
A  sphere  of  simple  green, 
With  only  butterflies  to  brood, 
And  bees  to  entertain, 

And  stir  all  day  to  pretty  tunes 
The  breezes  fetch  along, 
And  hold  the  sunshine  in  its  lap 
And  bow  to  everything; 

And  thread  the  dews  all  night,  like  pearls, 
And  make  itself  so  fine — 
A  duchess  were  too  common 
For  such  a  noticing. 

And  even  when  it  dies,  to  pass 
In  odors  so  divine, 
As  lowly  spices  gone  to  sleep, 
(  >r  amulets  of  pine. 

And  then  to  dwell  in  sovereign  barns, 
And  dream  the  days  away — 
The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, 
I  wish  I  were  the  hay ! 

217 


THE  WIDOW  MALONE. 

BY  CHARLES  LEVER. 

Charles  James  Lever  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1806.  He  was  a  graduate 
of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  afterwards  became  a  physician,  as  well 
as  a  journalist,  and  the  editor  of  the  Dublin  University  Magazine.  He 
was  consul  at  Spezzia  in  1858,  and  later  at  Trieste,  where  he  died  in 
1872.  His  poems,  when  he  did  not  try  to  be  serious,  are  full  of  humor 
and  rhythm.  He  wrote,  among  other  novels,  "Harry  Lorrequer," 
"Charles  O'Malley,"  and  "Tom  Burke  of  Ours." 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 

Alone  ? 
Oh!    she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts — 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score 

Or  more; 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  crown, 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

Ohone ! 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

'Twas  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 

Ohone ! 

218 


Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 

They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye — 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Misther  O'Brien  from  Clare — 

How  quare! 
It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there — 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
Clave  ten  kisses  at  laste — 
"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone — 

My  own !" 
"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone  1" 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh — 

For  why  ? 
But,  "Lucius,"  says  she, 
"Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong, 
And,  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 

But  strong ; 
If  for  widows  you  die 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 
For  they're  all  like  sweet   Mistress  Malone! 

Oh  oik-  ! 
Oh!    they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone! 


219 


MY   WIFE  AND  CHILD. 

BY  GENEBAL  HENBY  B.  JACKSON. 


This  poem,  which  has  often  been  at- 
tributed to  General  "Stonewall"  Jackson, 
was  written  by  General  Henry  R. 
Jackson,  a  lawyer  and  diplomat,  of  Sa- 
vannah, Ga. 


The  tattoo  beats — the  lights  are  gone, 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies ; 

The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on, 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  Oh,  dearest  one, 

Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  blest — 

Of  thee  and  him — our  baby  son — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast. 

God  of  the  tender,  frail  and  lone, 
Oh,  guard  the  tender  sleeper's  rest. 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near, 

To  her,  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet — 
To  mother,  wife — the  doubly  dear, 
In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 
Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear 
And  clear  her  drooping  spirits  yet. 

Whatever  fate  those  forms  may  show, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild — 

By  day — by  night — in  joy  or  woe — 
By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled, 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 

O  God !  protect  my  wife  and  child ! 

Now,  while  she  kneels  before  Thy  throne, 

Oh,  teach  her,  ruler  of  the  skies, 
That,  while  by  thy  behest  alone, 


220 


Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise, 
Xo  tear  is  wept  to  Thee  unknown, 
Xo  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies! 

That  Thou  can'st  stay  the  ruthless  hands 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain  ; 

That  only  by  Thy  stern  command 
The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain — 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again. 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 
Her  tear-wet  chock  is  sadly  prest, 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 

The  brightening  current  of  her  breast, 

Xo  frowning  look  nor  angry  tone 
Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest. 


22  T 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Lowell  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1819.  He  went  to  Harvard 
college  and  was  Longfellow's  successor  as  professor  of  modern  lan- 
guages at  the  same  college.  From  1857-'62  he  was  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly;  in  1863-'72  he  was  editor  of  the  North  American  Review.  He 
held  the  office  of  United  States  minister,  first  to  Spain— 1877-'80— and 
later  to  Great  Britain— 1880-'85.  Lowell  died  at  Cambridge  in  1891. 
Among  his  poems  are  the  "Biglow  Papers,"  the  "Vision  of  Sir  Laun- 
fal,"  "A  Tale  for  Critics."  Some  of  his  prose  works  are  "Among  My 
Books,"   "My  Study  Windows,"   and   "Political  Essays." 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 

When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John — 

Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 

We  know  it  now,"  sez  he ; 
"The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 

According  to  J.  B., 

Thet's  fit  for  you  an'  'me  l" 

You  wonder  why  we're  hot,  John? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns — 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 

Our  brothers  an'  our  sons. 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 

There's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 

Though't  may  surprise  J.  B. 

More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  didn't  stop  for  fuss — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 

Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess, 

Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 
"It  doesn't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 

Prescriptions  signed  'J.  B.', 

Put  up  by  you  an'  me !" 

222 


We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John ; 

You  mus'n't  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 

It's  jest  your  own  back  yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess, 

Ef  thet's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
'The  fencin'  stuff' 11  cost  enough 

To  bust  up  friend   J.  B., 

Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

We  know  we've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet's  honest,  just,  an'  true ; 
We  thought   'twould   win   applause,  John, 

Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 

His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton ; 

There's  natur'  in  J.  B., 

Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !" 


God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 

The  wuth  o'  being  free. 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 

God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he ; 
'But  nothin'  else  than  wilt  he  sells 

Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  lam,  like  you  an'  me." 


223 


SOLILOQUY   FROM  "HAMLET." 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAKE. 
To  be,  or  not  to  be ;  that  is  the  question ; 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  ?    To  die :  to  sleep : 
No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to ;  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.    To  die ;  to  sleep ; 
To  sleep :  perchance  to  dream :  aye,  there's  the  rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause :  there's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despis'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?    Who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death — 
The  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns — puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all, 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turns  awry 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


224 


TO   A   WATER   FOWL. 

BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

******& 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere. 

Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

******* 

Thou'rt  gone;   the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet  on  my  heart 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  T  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

*-5 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 

BY  GENL.  WILLIAM  H.  LYTLE. 

William  Haines  Lytle  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  O.,  in  1826,  and  died  a 
hero's  death  at  Chickamauga  in  1863.  He  enlisted  in  the  Mexican  war 
in  1846,  and  served  with  distinction.  Afterwards  he  attained  prominence 
as  a  lawyer  and  politician.  When  the  civil  war  broke  out  he  was  ap- 
pointed major  general  of  volunteers.  At  Carnifex  ferry  he  was  desper- 
ately wounded,  but  recovered  and  took  charge  of  a  brigade.  He  was 
again  wounded  at  Perryville  and  captured.  Being  exchanged,  he  was 
promoted  to  brigadier  general  and  fought  in  many  engagements  till 
Sept.  29,  1863.  His  poems  were  never  collected  in  book  form.  This  one 
was  written  in  1857. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arms,  O  queen,  enfold  me; 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear. 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman — 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still ! 

Let  no  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him; 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow — 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 


226 


Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling-  wings — 
That  her  blood  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian ! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile  I 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  to  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 
I  can  scorn  the  senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry. 
They  are  coming — quick,  my  falchion! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah!  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee! 

Cleopatra — Rome — farewell! 


227 


O,  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL 

BE   PROUD? 

BY  WILLIAM  KNOX. 

The  following  poem  was  a  particular  favorite  with  Abraham  Lincoln. 
It  was  first  shown  to  him  when  a  young  man  by  a  friend,  and  after- 
wards he  cut  it  from  a  newspaper  and  learned  it  by  heart.  He  said 
to  a  friend:  "I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  know  who  wrote  It,  but 
have  never  been  able  to  ascertain."  He  did  afterwards  learn  the  name 
of  the  author. 

William  Knox  was  a  Scottish  poet  who  was  born  in  1789  at  Firth  and 
died  in  1825  at  Edinburgh.  His  "Lonely  Hearth  and  Other  Poems"  was 
published  in  1818,  and  "The  Songs  of  Israel,"  from  which  "O,  Why  Should 
the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud"  is  taken,  in  1824.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was 
an  admirer  of  Knox's  poems,  and  befriended  the  author  when  his  habits 
brought  him  into  need. 


O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 
Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be  laid; 
As  the  young  and  the  old,  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  crumble  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved, 
The  father  that  mother  and  infant  who  blest — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  that  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  brow,  on  whose  cheek,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased 
Are  the  memories  of  mortals  who  loved  her  and  praised. 

228 


The  head  of  the  King,  that  the  scepter  hath  borne ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest,  that  the  miter  hath  worn ; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave — 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap; 
The  herdsman,  who  climbed  with  his  goats  np  the  steep; 
The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread — 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  or  the  weed, 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen ; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  we  see  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  did  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  did  shrink ; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  our  fathers  did  cling, 
But  it  speeds  from  us  all  like  the  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved — but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold  ; 
They  scorned — but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold  ; 
They  grieved — but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  will  come ; 
They  joyed — but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died — ah !  they  died — we,  things  that  arc  now, 

That  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow. 

And  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode, 

Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 
Are  mingled   together  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the  son-  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other  like  surge  upon  surge. 

229 


"Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye ;   'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud ; 
O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 


THE   THREE   FISHERS. 

BY  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

Charles  Kingsley  was  born  in  Devonshire  in  1819;  he  died  in  1875. 
His  poetical  works  consist  of  "The  Saint's  Tragedy"  and  "Andromeda 
and  Other  Poems." 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 

Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best; 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
They  looked  at  the  squall  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown ! 
But  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep — 
And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

230 


PSALM   XLVIII. 

Great  is  the  Lord,  and  greatly  to  be  praised 

In  the  city  of  our  God,  in  the  mountain  of  his  holiness, 

Beautiful  for  situation,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth, 

Is  Mount  Zion,  on  the  sides  of  the  north,  the  city  of  the  great 

King. 
God  is  known  in  her  palaces  for  a  refuge, 
For,  lo,  the  kings  were  assembled, 
They  passed  by  together. 
They  saw  it  and  so  they  marveled ; 
They  were  troubled,  and  hasted  away. 
Fear  took  hold  upon  them  there, 
And  pain,  as  of  a  woman  in  travail. 
Thou  breakest  the  ships  of  Tarshish  with  an  east  wind, 
As  we  have  heard,  so  have  we  seen 
In  the  city  of  the  Lord  of  hosts,  in  the  city  of  our  God ; 
God  will  establish  it  forever. 
We  have  thought  of  thy  lovingkindness,  O  God, 
In  the  midst  of  thy  temple. 
According  to  thy  name,  O  God, 
So  is  thy  praise  unto  the  ends  of  the  earth ; 
Thy  right  hand  is  full  of  righteousness. 
Let  Mount  Zion  rejoice, 

Let  the  daughters  of  Judah  be  glad,  because  of  thy  judgments. 
Walk  about  Zion,  and  go  round  about  her ; 
Tell  the  towers  thereof. 

Mark  ye  well  her  bulwarks,  consider  her  palaces; 
That  ye  may  tell  it  to  the  generation  following. 
For  this  God  is  our  God  f<>r  ever  and  ever; 
He  will  be  our  guide  even  unto  death. 

231 


THE  ISLES  OF   GREECE. 

BY  LOKD  BYBON. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phcebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 
And,  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
[For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  King  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

[Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?    Our  father's  bled. 
Earth !    render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 


232 


In  vain — in  vain  :  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark !   rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ! 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I,  

May  hear  our  mutual    murmurs 

sweep ;  <^> 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing 
and  die : 
A  land  of  slaves     shall  ne'er  be 

mine — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian 
wine ! 


,■  '    :.  -<  -l«-i/-n 


233 


INDEX 


PAGE. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh  Hunt  107 

All  Francis  A.  Durivage  160 

Althea  from  Prison,  To Richard  Lovelace  98 

Annabel   Lee    Edgar  Allan  Poe  178 

Antony  and  Cleopatra William  H.  Lytic  226 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The. .  .Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  158 

Babyhood    Josiah   Gilbert  Holland  40 

Ballade  of  Xicolete Graham  K.  Tomson  78 

Ballad  of  Old-Time  Ladies 

Dante  Gabriel  Kossetti's  version  of  Villon  128 

Ballad  of  the  Boat,  The Richard  Garnctt  172 

Ballad  Upon  a  Wedding Sir  John  Suckling  192 

Banks  o'  Doon Robert  Burns  76 

Bedouin  Love  Song Bayard  Taylor  67 

Believe  Ale  If  All  Those Thomas  Moore  101 

Bells  of  Shandon Francis  Mahony  196 

Bonny  Dundee Sir  Walter  Scott  167 

Border  Ballad  Sir  Walter  Scott  169 

Break,  Break,  Break Lord  Tennyson  24 

Breathes  There  a  Man Sir  Walter  Scott  104 

Bridge,  The Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  55 

Bugle  Song Lord   Tennyson  108 

Celia,  To Ben  Jonson  187 

Chambered  Nautilus Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  87 

Cherry   Ripe    Thomas   Campion  36 

Children,  Cry  of  The Elizabeth  Barrett  Broiuning  106 

Church  Gate,  At  the William  Makepeace  Thackeray  92 

Crossing  the  Bar Lord  Tennyson  193 

Cuckoo,  To  the John  Logan  94 

Daffodils,   The    William    Wordsr^orth  if>2 

Dandelion,  To  tin- James  Russell  I+owcll  170 

Dante,  On  A  Bust  of T.   W.  Parsons  126 

Death-Bed,   The Thomas  Hood  33 


11.  INDEX. 


Deed  and  a  Word,  A Charles  Mackay  47 

Delight  in  Disorder Robert  Herrick  62 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  H.  Boker  53 

Ditty,  A Sir  Philip  Sidney  1 18 

Douglas,  Douglas,  Tender  and  True.  . .  .Dinah  Maria  Mulock  149 

Drifting Thomas  Buchanan  Read  50 

Elia E.  J.  McPhelim  70 

Emperor's  Daughter  Stands  Alone,  An Geoffrey  Chaucer  60 

Evening  Song  Sidney  Lanier  54 

Faith    Thomas   Chatterton  144 

Fate   Susan  Marr  Spalding  22 

Flynn  of  Virginia     Bret  Harte  204 

Fool's  Prayer,  The Edward  Rotvland  Sill  28 

For  All  These Juliet  Wilbor  Tompkins  45 

Fount  of  Castaly Joseph  O'Connor  142 

Garret,  The William  Makepeace  Thackeray  198 

Girdle,  On  a Edmund  Waller  199 

Go,  Lovely  Rose Edmund  Waller  82 

Grass,  The Emily  Dickinson  217 

Graveyard,  In  the Macdonald  Clarke  166 

Grounds  of  the  Terrible Harold  Begbie  164 

Hark,  Hark  the  Lark William  Shakespeare  71 

Harp  That  Once  Through  Tara's  Halls Thomas  Moore  195 

He'd  Had  No  Show S.  W.  Foss  93 

Heritage,  The James  Russell  Lowell  116 

Her  Moral  (Miss  Kilmanseg) Thomas  Hood  95 

Highland  Mary Robert  Burns  152 

Holy  Nation,  A Richard  Realf  23 

Indian  Serenade Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  141 

Indian  Summer John  G.  Whittier  181 

"In  Memoriam" Lord  Tennyson  121 


INDEX.  in. 


Intra  Muros Mary  C.  Gillington  21 

Invictus  W.  B.  Henley  131 

I  Remember Thomas  Hood  12$ 

Isles  of  Greece   Lord  Byron  232 

Jerusalem  the  Golden John  M.  Neale  183 

Jim  Bludso   John  Jiay  64 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo Robert  Burns  185 

Jonathan  to  John James  Jvussell  Loivcll  222 

June   James  Russell  Lowell  194 

Kubla  Kahn Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  190 

Lamb,   The William   Blake  153 

Last  Leaf  The Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  84 

Lead  Kindly  Light John  Henry  Newman  J2 

Life  Mrs.  A.  L.  Barbauld  161 

Little  Breeches John  Hay  202 

Lovers'   Quarrel,   A Austin  Dobson  188 

Lucasta  on  Going  to  the  Wars,  To Richard  Lovelace  35 

Lucy   William  Wordsworth  59 

Maid  of  Athens Lord  Byron  186 

Mary's  Dream  John  Loive  124 

Match,  A Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  137 

Mignon's  Song Johann  Wolfgang  Goethe  no 

Misconceptions    Robert   Browning  184 

Moral  ("Lady  Flora") Lord  Tennyson  66 

Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  133 

My  Boat  Is  on  the  Shore Lord  Byron  180 

My  Wife  and  Child Henry  R.  Jackson  220 

Nathan   Hale Francis  Miles  finch  212 

Nearer  Home  Phoebe  Cary  174 

Night   James  Blanco  White  79 

Night  Has  a  Thousand  Eyes,  The. Francis  William  Bourdillon  115 

Nocturne Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  210 


iv.  INDEX. 


O,  Captain,  My  Captain Walt  Whitman  38 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn John  Keats  97 

Ode  on  Solitude Alexander  Pope  103 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night Thomas  Moore  63 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The Charles  Lamb  18 

Old  Oaken  Bucket Samuel  Woodworth  86 

One  Touch  of  Nature William  Shakespeare  89 

Opportunity John  James  Ingalls  109 

O,  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  Be  Proud? 

William  Knox  228 

O,  Yet  We  Trust  that  Somehow  Good  ("In  Memoriam")  . . . 

Lord  Tennyson  121 

Patriotism   Sir  Walter  Scott  104 

Paradox  of  Time,  The Austin  Dobson  208 

Pompadour's  Fan,  The Austin  Dobson  75 

Portia's  Speech  on  Mercy William  Shakespeare  207 

Psalm  XIX  74 

Psalm  XXIV    155 

Psalm   XLVI    44 

Psalm  XLVIII   231 

Psalm  LXXXIV    in 

Psalm   CXXI    119 

Remembrance   Emily  Bronte  42 

Requiem,  A Robert  Louis  Stevenson  90 

Requiescat    Matthew  Arnold  90 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep Emma  Willard  105 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep Elisabeth  Akers  Allen  30 

Rose,  The Pierre  Ronsard  143 

Ruthless  Time  William  Shakespeare  46 

Sally  in  Our  Alley Henry  Carey  68 

Scots  Wha  Hae Robert  Burns  182 

Sea  Song,  A Allan  Cunningham  134 

Self-Dependence    Matthew  Arnold  156 

Sennacherib's  Host,  Destruction  of Lord  Byron  32 


INDEX.  ▼• 

Serenade  (From  "The  Spanish  Student") 

Henry  Wadsicorth  Longfellow  96 

Shepherdess,  The Alice  Mcyncll  130 

Shepherd's  Resolution,  The George  Wither  80 

She  Waiks  in  Beauty  Like  the  Night Lord  Byron  57 

Sleep,  To  William   Wordsworth  17 

Song   John  Bunyan  100 

Song    William   Shakespeare  71 

Song  of  Callicles Matthew  Arnold  214 

Song  of  the  Camp Bayard  Taylor  146 

Song  of  the  Mystic Abram  Ryan  81 

Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood  85 

Song  of  the  Western  Men Robert  S.  Hawker  129 

Song  on  a  May  Morning John  Milton  163 

Society  Upon  the  Stanislaus Bret  Harte  210 

Spacious  Firmament  on  High,  The Joseph  Addison  58 

Star  Spangled  Banner,  The Francis  Scott  Key  120 

Tears,  Idle  Tears  ("Princess") Lord  Tennyson  151 

Thalassa,    Thalassa Broiunlcc   Brown  140 

Thanatopsis William  Cullcn  Bryant  112 

There  Is  No  Death /.  L.  McCreery  25 

Though  Lost  to  Sight Thomas  Moore  20 

Three  Fishers,  The Charles  Kingsley  230 

Tiger,  The   William  Blake  176 

Time  Hath  My  Lord  ("Troilus  and  Cressida") 

William  Shakespeare  46 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer Thomas  Moore  132 

To  Be  or  Not  to  Be  ("Hamlet") William  Shakespeare  224 

Today   Thomas  Carlyle  179 

Tomorrow  and  Tomorrow    ("Macbeth") 

William  Shakespeare  200 

To  Thine  Own  Self  Be  True Packcnham  Beatty  37 

Two  Lovers   George  Eliot  48 

Untimely  Thought,  An Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  73 

Uphill    Christina  Rossctti  148 


▼1. 


INDEX. 


Virgins,  Counsel  to Robert  Herrick  138 

Virtue  Immortal  George  Herbert  34 

Waiting,  The John  G.  Whittier  136 

Warble  for  Lilac  Time Walt  Whitman  206 

Water  Fowl,  To  a William  Cullen  Bryant  225 

When  in  Disgrace  with  Fortune William  Shakespeare  19 

Where  Shall  the  Lover  Rest?  ("Marmion")  .Sir  Walter  Scott  216 

Why  So  Pale  and  Wan? Sir  John  Suckling  139 

Widow  Malone,  The' Charles  Lever  218 

World  Is  Too  Much  With  Us,  The William  Wordsworth  102 

Year's  at  the  Spring,  The Robert  Browning  135 


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